A Fugitive's Tale
by PandorasBottle
Summary: After escaping Azkaban and being forced to leave his godson soon after having only just found him, Sirius Black travels to a foreign land to lay low while the dust clears back home. Working with a Beta to iron out some cultural imperfections, edits coming soon, new chapters in development. Thanks for reading.
1. one - A Patient Wolf

The girl shivered a bit as she plucked the cold potatoes out of the damp ashes. She carefully wiped them off and laid them on the table. The huge black dog had been watching her from beyond her awareness for days. This time, he came out of hiding and trotted into her camp.

"Well you're a big fella. Are you hungry?" His ears pricked and his head tilted. "Do you like sweet potatoes?" She broke a potato open and took a bite, then tossed him a bite of the sweet orange flesh. He swallowed it without tasting it and looked to her for more. "Here, sweetie, you don't want the black bits." She pulled the burnt flakes of skin away and gave him more, bite by bite to slow him down, alternating his bite and her bite She reached a hand out for him to sniff. He hesitated, but then snuffled and nudged her hand for a scratch behind the ears. "What's your name?" she asked, as she felt for a collar, but there was none to be found. He looked healthy enough, but was a little too gaunt. She wondered how he managed to stay dry. When the potatoes were gone, he sniffed around the camp, content with her company for a while.

"I'm glad you stopped by. I have really been hoping for some intelligent conversation lately." She crouched and poked the sodden remains of her fire. "Welcome to my kitchen, though my hearth is cold. You don't happen to have a talent for fire do you?"

She walked around the area gathering twigs and branches, pine needles and dead leaves. He joined in, carrying a branch around, probably for sport. Most of what she found was wet, nearly all was damp. She dropped her bundle by the fire pit and sat on the cold bench of the heavy picnic table installed at the campsite. She uncovered her crossword book and contemplated a clue. The dog laid his massive head in her lap; she stroked the thick dark fur and looked into the animal's bewitching yellow eyes. "Do you know a six letter word, for 'godsend', starts with an F?" He gave no verbal reply. The warmth and breath of another creature was a comfort she'd denied she'd missed. Shutting out most of the world was her best bet for resetting herself, she thought. Somewhere out here, she'd find her lost self, she was sure, or forget why she was looking.

A noise in the woods pricked his ears, or so she suspected. She wasn't sure she'd heard anything. He gave her hand a quick lick and trotted away, as casually as he'd arrived. "Do come back to visit," she called after him, "I have enjoyed your company, Friend." She picked up her pen and scrawled the five missing letters on one of the fresher pages. _Pour ecrire un mot_.

Alone again, she tucked the book back into the baggie and turned back to the tasks at hand. She needed to prepare for another night alone in this less than ideal situation. It would not be a pleasant night without a fire. She hoped the great warm beast would come back; perhaps she wouldn't have to sleep alone in the cold, if she could make a pet of him. She didn't dare rely on hope, and went back to gathering potential fuel.

Crouched by the fire pit, balanced on the balls of her feet, she tried her fifth match seeking to catch the driest kindling she could find. She heard light footfalls approaching. "Oh good, you did come back." She looked up and saw that it was not, indeed, her recently made friend. Instead, it was a lean man in a thick sweater, with a handsome smile and a backpack supported by a belt perched on his hips, with straps slung loosely on his shoulders.

"Expecting someone else, I take it?" Startled, she lost her balance and sprawled backwards. _Qui frappe de la sorte_? His velvety accent took her right off her guard. He chuckled as he stepped toward her and offered her a hand up.

"There was a dog, huge and black, maybe part wolfhound, maybe part bear? Did you see him?" She brushed the damp soil and pine needles off the seat of her jeans.

"Ah, that would be Paddy." he replied.

"Is he yours?"

"Oh, I'd say he isn't anyone's. He comes and goes. Need help lighting that fire?"

 _Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu._ "Please. If the sky clears, it's going to be cold tonight, and everything is damp as it is." She looked skyward, and saw the glow of the half moon peeking through the fast moving remains of the day's rainclouds. Nearer to the horizon, strengthening gems that must be planets showed against a clearing western sky. The light would fail soon, in an hour at most.

He loosened the belt and let the pack slide to the ground. "Check under your car, or under the tent. Anything dry under there?" He reached into the now shapeless pack and pulled out a tin, then walked around the pines and birches, collecting bits of loose bark and lumps of sap from the leeward sides of the trunks. She met him back at the fire pit where he pooled their finds and began arranging them. "Check in that patch of reeds, over there, by the trail," he gestured behind him, and opened the tin.

She returned with a modest bundle, but maybe it would help. So much was too damp to bother with. He had dug away the damp soil and ashes in the pit and found a bit of dry ground underneath. First he skinned the damp outside off a few reeds, and shredded some of the driest of the gathered miscellany, and made almost a bird's nest of it, and tucked a small piece of black cloth within. He constructed a rack, a kind of cradle, from several forked sticks, and laid them over the depression. In it, he fitted his dry bundle, then built a half teepee of longer sticks and twigs over it, open in front. Satisfied with his careful construction, he began striking sparks into it from a flint and steel. _On bat le briquet_. A tiny spark caught. Gently he whispered life into it, producing a thready smoke. He held it gingerly and nursed it and fed it tiny bites of fuel as it eagerly consumed them and grew stronger. He laid it in its cradle and added to its cage. As it grew and grew, he held damp reeds over it to let them dry in its warmth, then fed them in as well. Slowly, patiently, he had crafted his spark into a flame capable of warming them both. He carefully lay damp wood within its warmth to prepare for when they were needed.

She watched him perform his art in complete wonder. "That's magic if I have ever seen it." she commented. "That was truly amazing. I'll get a kettle ready, a warm drink will do us good. I'm afraid all I have is tea. Do you care for Earl Grey?"

"That would be perfect," he smiled, proud of his fire and pleased that he'd earned an invitation to stay.

His unruly hair was executing an escape from the futile grasp of an insecure ponytail. It was nearly black; a summer spent somewhere warm had left it sun-kissed with mahogany. Grey hairs crept in stealthily at his temples and into the whiskers along his jawline. She thought he had to be at least fifteen years older than she was. He had clearly been a very handsome man in his day, but the signs of faded youth were etched on his face. Crow's feet tiptoed out from the corners of his eyes when he smiled. It was so endearing, so genuine, how they sparkled with mischief. Even through this spark that shone bright in him, there was clearly a shadow behind it. He had been through something life changing, something that had scarred him irrevocably, but left him with a profound patience.

"One doesn't often find a young lady alone in the woods," he observed as she emerged from the twilight of the trail's close canopy, with the kettle full. "You certainly aren't afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, nor are you lost." He shuffled a pine cone with the toe of his boot and looked into the treetops. "Most folks go into the woods to escape, or maybe to explore." He left the observations hanging, an invitation for comment.

"Aren't we all running from one thing, and looking for another, really?" She huffed a tendril of hair from in front of her nose. "Besides, I'm twenty five years old, I'm not helpless." She saw him cast a sidelong glance at the fire, which had miraculously grown quite strong in her absence. "And I'm not exactly in the woods. This place has all the amenities, a good sturdy table, the spigot is only four sites away, and the bathhouse is just up the hill." She tucked three sweet potatoes near the burning wood and set the kettle over the fire, and went to dig through her things. She quickly produced a tall black tin, a long spoon, and a large stoneware mug. She had to pilfer through her tent and her jeep to find a second mug; she wasn't accustomed to entertaining guests. She wiped the inside with her shirttail and set the mismatched pair on the table. "Do you take cream? Well, it's not exactly cream, but it works." She set down a can of evaporated milk, and a bear-shaped jar. "We'll have to share a spoon. Honey?"

"Yes dear, that _would_ be lovely," he quipped. He noticed her blush. "I'm Sirius."

"Serious?"

"Like the star."

"Oh. Sirius. Like the star. I like stars." She regained her wits. "Claret."

"Like the wine?"

"Yes, but some of my friends call me Oh Clare, a silly joke, really, _Au Clair de la lune_." She glanced up at the half moon, now brightly chasing Jupiter and his consort, Venus, out of the darkening sky.

"Claret. Like the wine. I like wine." His eyes sparkled. Perhaps she was in the company of the Big Bad Wolf himself.

She spooned the fragrant leaves into the mugs, and he administered the boiling water. Patience would turn the perilous scalding liquid from a hazard, if imbibed too hastily, into a warm embrace of comfort, once allowed to bloom and be mellowed with touch of sweetness.

He saw the dog-eared plastic covered book on the table. "Oh, Guardian Crosswords… may I? I love these." She pulled the book from its protective skin and passed it to him. He flipped through it and looked over her work. "Ink. A purist, I see. Ooh, a gap. _Prete moi ta plume..."_ She yielded him the pen from behind her ear. "'Stoneblood', nine letters," he continued. "Blank, blank, blank, R, blank, C, blank, blank, R. Hmmmmmm," he mused. His eyes searched his eyebrows, the tips of his mustache curled and flitted with his fidgeting lip. He sniffed the damp air. _Pour ecrire un mot._ "Pet…ri… chor!"

"Sweet." She looked over the freshly penned letters. His hand had a flair, and better yet, his mind. Intelligent conversation indeed. A Wolf, or a Gentleman? What is a gentleman but a patient wolf? The tea had steeped and cooled enough. She opened a slit in the milk can with a sturdy knife and offered it up. They both took a touch of honey as well and sipped the warming elixir while going through the rest of the gaps in her worn book. He had a sharp mind, barely any clue escaped him, but those that did were suddenly made clear to her when read in his voice. They started a new page together. "'An offering of peace', eleven letters, 5,6," he read aloud. "Olive branch," they said in unison, and he recorded it in his elegant print.


	2. two - Confessions

The tea and the connections they found in the intertwining words soothed and warmed their tired souls. The fire had started to burn low as the night grew cold. He felt her shiver a bit, so he rose to stoke the fire and pull a heavy fur cloak from his bag. He draped it around both their shoulders and sat close. Before the new log caught, it had grown too dim for more puzzles, so they turned to conversation.

She told him he was right about escape, that she was running from something, and looking for something. Between a job and a relationship that individually could have each consumed her soul, she had to check out, before she truly checked out for good. She told everyone she just needed some time to think. She had no debts, and the pay had been good enough that she had some savings to get by on, and she was living cheaply. She thought Radiology Tech sounded lucrative and satisfying until she started seeing the kids. It broke her heart. She felt like every day she was performing torturous tests and signing death sentences and handing them to desperate parents. "I was the Big Bad Wolf," she confessed. "How about you? What are you running from?"

"It's a long complicated story." He picked up a flat stone and turned it over and over in his hands, wet on one side, dirty on the other. "Would you rather a lie that wont scare you; or a truth you may not believe?"

"Let's start with the short truth, then you can give me the whole story."

He paused. He threw the stone into the heart of the fire, sending up a fury of sparks. He stared at the embers, then took a deep breath and began. "When I was twenty two, I was framed for murder. I was imprisoned without a trial. Twelve years on, I escaped. The man who framed me has been exposed. Until I am exonerated, I am on the run."

She sat silently, taking in what she'd just heard. If he meant to harm her, why would he confess this? If he were guilty, why would he volunteer this information? What could he possibly gain by lying in what he'd just revealed?

She rose, and stepped to the fire, then broke the heavy silence. "And I thought I had dropped a bomb on you. More tea? You have a long story to tell." She put the kettle back on to heat again.

Water boiled, tea steeped, honey drizzled, milk swirled and a man spoke. The steam from his cup masked the despair that clouded his eyes as he told of the ordeal, beginning with the day he lost two of his very best friends. His eyes went vacant recalling the torturous years of forgotten withdrawal, the passionate apathy of the place where he was held. His eyes brightened and dimmed when he recounted the days he found and left his godson. Some of the details were foggy, shrouded; he seemed to be truthful, but still hiding much. She asked why, if the culprit had been found out, he wasn't already free and clear. He explained that it was complicated, and that the authorities weren't exactly interested in truth, and what is truth without proof? She sensed that there was far more to the story, but did not press him. He had shared far more than she ever imagined. It was only then that she did the math.

"You are only ten years older than me." A look into his eyes confirmed. A toll had truly been taken. The grey, the wrinkles, the wear and tear; all premature. The fire had begun to fade again. _Ma chandelle est morte. Je n'ai plus de feu. Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu._

She looked up at the unobstructed stars. "It's getting late, and cold." He reached into a pocket on his hip and pulled out a lovely but faded niello pocket watch on a tarnished silver chain. "It's past one," he confirmed.

She happened to consider that he hadn't mentioned his own campsite. If he even had one, it certainly didn't have a fire; he'd been here for hours. Sending him away now would be cruel. "Come inside." Tea in hand, she led him to her tent. _Va chez la voisine._ She spread out her mat to insulate them from the ground, then took her bedding out of the plastic bag that insured it would stay dry. She unzipped it fully and spread it out so they could sit and talk more. _Je crois qu'elle y est._ He ventured no further inside than a glimpse in through the gap where the zippered doors parted. "Oh. The sweet potatoes…could you fetch them while I change clothes?" She passed him a candle lantern," and light this, please," then zipped the door halfway down. Every camper knows you have to sleep in clean clothes if you want to be warm. You may not feel the dampness, but it is there, whether you think you sweat or not. Wet is cold, cold is death. She heard him hesitating by the fire. _Au claire de la lune, L'aimable Lubin, Frappe chez la brune._ "Don't you want to come inside? It's cold out." Like a cat calling her kittens, the sharp purr of the zipper ascending punctuated her insistence.

Resigned, he carried in the hot steaming potatoes, the light, and his heavy bag and sat across the tent from her, as far as the close walls allowed. They shared the hot potatoes, each with an extra half share since her canine friend hadn't returned. He assured her the dog had found a safe warm place to stay the night; that the animal knew she would welcome him if he had a need. "Here," he reached again into his bag and pulled out handful of smoky beef jerky to share. "We need a little protein." Even after the hot potato and the jerky, he still looked chilled to the bone from remembering his ordeal. The spark had drained from his eyes. There was no threat in this wilted man, not tonight.

"You won't be warm tonight unless you put on something dry. Please, you look so cold."

He sighed like a man with Death on his shoulders then dug deeply into his bag, pulling out a dark grey Henley thermal shirt and an orange. "I have no clean trousers." She pawed through her own things and produced a pair of oversized flannel lounge pants, thankfully in a dark blue, black, and green plaid. She tossed them to him. He regarded her with an incredulous look.

"They are from the men's wear department, and too long for me. Would you prefer my violet ones? You must. Stay. Warm."

He peeled off his thick Shetland sweater. The high, pewter-buttoned collar had hidden the tattoo on his neck; it consisted of two ancient characters and three Arabic digits. Pulling off another shirt, he revealed a canvas of other curious tattoos. He quickly donned the Henley, so she didn't get more than a glance, but some of them still showed where the buttons at the top lay undone. She turned away as he stood to slip out of his black jeans and into the soft flannel. Then tent's peak was low, so he had to stoop, even in the center. The posture seemed natural for the state of mind he'd fallen into.

"Amalgamation? One turned against three? Did I see the world-tree? Yggdrasil?" she asked. He reached to close his collar, but realized he had little, at this point, to hide.

"Prison tattoos." He pulled the cloak up over his shoulders.

"Where was this prison?"

"The North Sea." He didn't offer more. He was tired of the subject.

She could smell the sharp sweet fragrance of the citrus oil pierce the air when he began to peel the orange. She looked closer and saw that it was not the peel of a fruit but colored foil revealing wedges of chocolate. He ate two before he handed her some. She examined the wedges; they were embossed with a fancy script H on one side, and a bee and a coronet with strawberry leaves on the other. They tasted like none she had ever had. He savored them, and took deep breaths. After the sweets, his cheeks regained a few degrees of color, and he grew back into his some of his previous spirit. The clean clothing was helping, he admitted to himself.

"Few know those runes, or that word," he observed. "How do you know them?"

"I have a love for language, and there is much to learn from ancient science and religion. I've been reading the _Eddur_."

Hearing this he raised an eyebrow, and the spark began to return in earnest. One corner of his mouth curled. _Not ordinary, this one,_ he thought, _and bewitching eyes for a Muggle_.

"What's a muggle?" she asked.

"What did you say?" His countenance converted, but not entirely. "Where did you hear that?"

"You just said it, '…for a muggle', I—"

"Not aloud…" He looked at her, puzzled. _Bewitching indeed_ , he thought. _Can one close a can of worms? Maybe she really is different. Let's just try something. I can always make her forget._

"Forget what?" She looked at him strangely.

"Oh bloody hell…" He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Do you believe in magic?"

"Not card tricks, or cheap _leger de main,_ like pulling a coin out a kid's ear?" She leaned forward and looked him dead in the eye and whispered, "You mean supernatural, right? Real magic?" The way she said 'real' had told him all he needed to know. His spark was back. As she continued, he reached behind her ear and produced a 1/4 krugerrand. The springbok on it danced. "I am not so arrogant as to think I know all there is about th-" Her mouth dropped open.

"Not always cheap." His eyes glistened bright as the coin as he dropped it into the pocket of her holey t-shirt. "Give me your hands." He held them in his and formed the four together into a bowl, and closed them gently, then breathed into them, much like he had whispered into the bundle where he nursed the fire. The lantern flame dimmed, and a soft blue-green light shone from within their fingers. "Open them, slowly."

She did. In their hands, lightly flexing their wings, sat four luminous moths, or were they butterflies? One by one they took flight and flittered around the tent, each dividing into two more, again and again, until there were dozens. She held up her index finger, and one lit. Another joined it, and another, until the whole troop had joined back into a single Atlas. She felt its weight; it was real. She giggled like a child. In this light, he looked ten years younger. The moth beat its wings and circled their heads, then sparked into a thousand stars that fixed themselves in constellations to the roof of the tent. She was speechless, bewitched.

"We should get some sleep." He smoothed the sleeping bag and patted her pillow. She lay down as he bid, and he lay beside her, bundling his sweater into a pillow for himself. He spread the fur over them both, then kissed her gently on her forehead, and settled himself a modest foot away. Somehow, despite what she'd seen, or maybe because of it, she fell easily asleep, as the stars above her sparkled and faded.


	3. three - Opera sauvage

Something woke her abruptly, but she wasn't sure quite what. It could have been when her head hit the sleeping bag, unsupported by whatever had been her pillow a moment before. The tent felt suddenly empty, her companion had vanished. His boots still stood in the corner by the zipper pull.

She heard a bit of a shuffling outside. She fumbled for a flashlight. The noises outside escalated to a metallic clatter and a long low growl. Light in hand, she burst out to find a surprised bear face to face with her large furry friend from before. When the light hit, the huge dog turned and snapped a harsh snarl at her, yellow eyes blazing in the focused beam. Stunned, she recoiled into the tent. She heard the altercation develop into a mostly one-sided exchange of growls, snarls, and retorts, then a concession and retreat. Things quieted, and she emerged without making a sound.

"It's ok, it was just a bear after the empty milk tin." Sensing her eyes on his back, he whirled and snarled through bared teeth, "I told you to stay inside!" Cross words- velvet transformed into a jagged blade. His eyes flashed yellow. He had a scruffy wild look to him. She saw a tuft of hair at the apex of his breastbone, obscuring the tattoos that had laid bare before. Even the weave of the Henley seemed somehow, well, woolier than it had before. Hang on… yellow eyes? She dropped the light. It clattered to the ground, illuminating a set of barefoot man-prints that over the course of three strides transformed into… pawprints. What. The fuck.

"You're a … You're a ..." she stammered. He dare not even think a word; he wanted to see what word she chose. "You're a … Shapeshifter?" There were a dozen words he had hoped it wouldn't be, and this was not on his list.

"The term we use is Animagus. It's actually quite different from—" She heard no more. The world went all starry and then she found herself staring up at a span of plain blue fabric illuminated by dim candle light. The man who knelt over her looked completely normal, sane. The grey Henley's waffle weave again matched the pattern imprinted on her cheek. The tattoos were no longer obscured. Chilled, he pulled his heavy sweater back on.

She sat up and shook the fog out of her head. It wouldn't go. What had she just seen? Was it a hallucination, a dream? She looked at her feet, at his. Dirt and pine needle fragments littered the floor by the entrance. She didn't notice her breathing. Short. Pants. Hyper. Ventilation. Unblinking. Glazed.

His lips were moving but she didn't hear words. She turned to look at him. The words started to get through. "Claret. Listen to me. Calm down."

"Calm down? CALM. DOWN. You. Want me. To calm. Down." Her eyes flared and this time, she snarled the cross words. "YOU DO NOT GET TO TELL ME—" She felt dizzy again.

He caught her and held her and spoke firmly into her ear. "Breathe in, with me… now out, with me. In. Out. In. Out. Good. Rationalize this through. What just happened? Did the world change? No, your view of it changed. Your vision improved. Breathe."

She kept breathing, after he taught her how again. She thought about the things she'd seen just in the past twelve hours. She thought about the story she'd heard by the fire, and how there were gaps. She thought about the spirit in Paddy's eyes, the fire born of damp fuel, the foil that smelled like fresh citrus, the glowing stars on the ceiling of the tent, the coin in her pocket. The coin. She pulled away from him and found the heavy coin still where he'd dropped it. She held it and gazed at it. The springbok bowed and danced, then stood still, before it started to blur. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"My paradigm shifted. Magnitude 8.5, there are cracks in my foundation. My entire world just shook. I am entitled to freak out just a little bit, if you don't mind."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a dark green bottle and a delicate glass cup set in a silver base. He poured a slightly effervescent liquid into the cup and with his eyes, bid her drink. She took a sip, then hesitated. No, I trust him, she thought, no venefice here. She tasted the liquid. It was sweet, and sparkling, light on the tongue, delicious, fruity, complex, and distinctly alcoholic. She drained the cup and held it out for more. He produced a second glass and joined her. The elixir poured like liquid garnets in the glow of the candle.

"A toast. To newfound clarity." Clarity...Claret-ey... _clarte._ Such sweet intoxication. The drink? Or the New World? Her mind raced. The shock gave way to wonder, curiosity, questions. She didn't know where to start. Her breathing started to spiral again, but he caught her again and gave her silent second lesson in respiration. He poured one more round and corked the still nearly full bottle tightly and set it back in the bag.

"Trust me, we do not want to spill that," he winked. She thought a moment in her new paradigm and her eyes grew wide again. She eyed the shapeless bag. That bag was not as big as the things he kept pulling out of it. The cloak should have been enough to fill it. He saw the question growing on her lips and shushed her with a finger to her lips. "There is much to explore, later, " he insisted in a low crushed velvet tone, "but you still need some rest."

They drained their cups, and reclined again into her pillow. She nestled her cheek onto his shoulder and he curled his arm around hers. Her mind was still racing, but being so close to his rising and falling chest steadied her. "Tell me a story, please? About this new world you gave me a glimpse of. If you don't I'm never going to sleep again. Tell me about happy times, not the story from before."

"Let me tell you about the school."


	4. four - The Cosset

Waking up alone had not yet become so routine for her that it would startle her to find herself sharing a spoon with a warm body when dawn came. The thing that did, however, take her unawares was the realization that not only was she the outer spoon, but the bigger spoon. He was easily four inches taller than her, but he seemed so small and vulnerable curled up here. Careful not to wake him, she lay there sensing him. His quiet snores reminded her of precisely what a teddy bear would sound like if caught napping. Her elbow lay at his hip, her hand was under his Henley and directly in contact with the flesh of his thorax. What the dusk and thick sweater had hidden from her eyes was laid bare to her fingers. His ribs exposed details his words and eyes had omitted from his story. He was half starved, bless his sweet soul. She could feed him today, but a trip into town would be necessary to carry forward.

She lay there with her nose pressed into the soft wool of her cosset's thick sweater. The scents it carried reminded her of the dog, the smoky fire, the tea, the chocolate, the bear. It was all real, wasn't it? Had she accepted this new reality? He whimpered a weak plea in his sleep, and shuddered. She stroked his walnut hair. What had appeared as merely unruly was dagged with unseen tangles under the soft outer layers. She didn't want to move from this spot, guarding over his rest, but her bladder had other thoughts in mind. She was both relieved and disappointed when he stirred and turned. She lingered just a few more moments before she extricated herself from the warmth of the nest. She slipped on a second shirt and his boots, grabbed a washcloth, and promised she'd be right back.

Outside, she verified that the transforming footprints bore the same witness as her memory of the events from the wee hours. She was surprised at herself that she'd been careless with the milk can. She knew better. She hurried up the hill with a neglected urgency. Thankfully the place was nearly deserted this time of year, no waiting, particularly on weekdays. The seat was cold, but it didn't matter. The water in the sink was hot. She washed her face and looked in the mirror. The girl looking back looked the same as yesterday, but she felt different. The world hadn't changed, she had, right?

By the time she got back to the camp, he was dressed and waiting for his boots. Maybe it was the blue light filtering in through the tent, maybe firelight is that much more forgiving, but she could now see the dark circles under his eyes. She yielded his boots and donned her own shoes and started assessing the fire pit. It shouldn't take much to get it going, it was dry and still warm. He stepped out of the tent, ready to strike out.

"I have some responsibilities to attend to, I shall return in about two hours," he announced, and started towards the trail he'd appeared from before last night's dusk.

"Oh, no. You aren't going anywhere without some breakfast, Mister. Get this fire going and I'll have you fed in ten minutes." There was no room for negotiation in her look. He resigned, and started stoking life back into the fire. She went into the woods and came back shortly after with a five gallon bucket and a length of rope. She pried the lid off and pulled out a partial carton of eggs, a plastic bag of flatbread, and a rectangular can, which she opened, and into it, sliced a deep grid. She dug out a sooty skillet and dumped the pink strips in and set them over the fire, turning them as they sizzled and spat.

"Can you fetch some fresh water, please?" she bid him, waving the kettle toward him as she focused still on the skillet. When she was satisfied with their level of progress, she broke the last four eggs into the pan and scraped them and prodded them and flipped them and poked them, then turned out a portion onto a flatbread, which she folded, and presented, steaming, to her companion. She ducked into the tent and came out with last night's tea mugs, and the spoon. Again, the tail of her shirt would suffice for washing up, before she poured fresh cold water into each and spooned in a cloud of orange powder, and stirred.

He found these Muggle foods odd but deeply satisfying, though all he could truly identify had been the eggs. She constructed a flatbread for herself as well, but cut it in two and offered him half. He hadn't realized how hungry he had been.

"What is this pink stuff you fried with the eggs? And the drink? I've never seen the like of either."

"Sorry, sweetie, one has few options when refrigeration is not available. The 'meat' is Spam, and the drink is Tang. When you come back from your urgent business, we can go into town and see if we can do a little better."

"The Spam makes a reasonable accompaniment for the eggs, but I do quite enjoy the Tang. It's, it escapes, me… perky, maybe?"

"The vitamin C is probably some of what you are desperately lacking. Drink up, I'll make more."

The circles under his eyes didn't seem quite so dark as they had in the blue light of the tent. The hot meal brought him new life. He downed a second cup of the sweet-tart beverage and looked to her for his leave. He had undoubtedly brightened.

"Two hours, right? I am going to get a shower and gather up laundry for the trip into town. We can go when you get back."

While she showered, she mentally prepared a list. Thrift store first, to round out his wardrobe a bit. Actually, she hadn't seen what else he had hidden in that enigmatic bag, and she was certain it wasn't on his shoulder when he left. Nonetheless, there were surely treasures to be found in both. Grocery shopping would be last, but she really wanted to get some vitamins into him. A trip to Kmart would cover that and fill in whatever couldn't be had at the thrift shop.


	5. five - Townies

His cheeks were flushed when he walked back into the camp. She already had a bag of laundry and a cooler in the back of the jeep, and the campsite mostly battened down for absence. As he got closer, she called out to him. "I'm doing laundry while we're in town, if you have anything needs washed." He looked down at what he was wearing, sweater now tied around his waist in response to the warmth the sun had brought. His Henley and plaid flannels were hanging in the tent still. "Anything in your bag? Come here, are you bleeding?" She wiped a bit of blood off one side of his chin and inspected his jawline for more. Nothing. "Ready to go?"

She'd zipped down the windows, and the half door was already open on the passenger side. He tossed a few articles in with the laundry and climbed in. "Seatbelt…it's a law in this state." He watched her buckle up, and followed her example. She cranked the vehicle and then reached into a case on the floor and fished out a cassette on a wire, and shoved it into the tape player. On the other end of the wire, she pressed a few buttons on a shiny black box, and music crackled to life from within the speakers. When they rolled out of the camp area and on to the open road, she cranked up the tunes a bit. She preferred the second track anyway.

"What is this music? I like it. "

"Rush… Moving Pictures. I have more." She gestured toward the case in the floor. "Do you like Metallica?" As soon as the question cleared her lips, she realized he'd probably missed out on nearly all of what she took for granted for the past decade. "I can play you some after this." Half starved, in so many ways. She glanced over at him. The wind was in his hair, and he was smiling. The frail wilted thing from this morning was gone, and the spark was back in his eyes. The sun made the mahogany in the dark walnut of his hair outshine the traces of grey.

The CD played out just as they got to the East side of town. She talked him through opening the CD player and swapping the disks, with assistance as traffic signals allowed. He was fascinated at the way vinyl records had been replaced by these rainbow-kissed wonders. Three tracks would see them to the west side of town, and to the gravel lot by Sweet Charity's thrift store.

As expected, the place was a curiosity shop full of unimaginable treasures and one-time finds. She began paging through the men's clothing and holding things up to him as he scanned the place, taking in his newfound immersion in all thing Muggle. It was far richer to him than being in a shop full of new items; these items were all owned, used, loved, and given. They were steeped in the lives of the people they'd belonged to. Something caught his eye and he wandered away. It only took a moment for the same thing to happen to her as well. She found him again at a basket of mismatched silverware.

"Fancy a spoon, Claret?" With a sparkling wink, he held up a shapely silver plated spoon with a vine of flowers embossed on the handle, with their lovely backsides stamped in fine detail on the reverse.

"Only if I share it with you, Sirius. Wanna fork?" She countered his parry with a grin and a heavy four-tined affair, worn from decades of love in someone's kitchen. Together they explored through the treasures in Charity's hoard, eventually coming to the books. They found three crossword books that were barely touched, including a New York Times, and the holy grail of used book finds, a _Larousse Gastronomique._ It really wasn't practical for camping, but for goodness' sake she couldn't pass it up. He saw some promising items in the clothing, some practical, some impractical but stunning. He held up a black t-shirt with a rectangle of white wave contours on it. A flash of joy washed over him then faded to nostalgia. That, and another black shirt, silk-screened with 'Black Saturday' in yellow, both joined the to-buy collection; two pair of pants, a respectable button-up, a throwback waistcoat, a smart suede jacket cut like a blazer, a nice pair of gloves, a warm hat and a reasonably utile pair of engineer's boots. She added a thick pueblo style blanket, the books, and a few additions for the camp kitchen. While the cashier was ringing it up, Claret appeared with one last trinket, a star-shaped key fob. "Hey, Big Spender," she purred as she sidled up to her companion, who was unexpectedly counting crisp bills out of his pocket. The cashier rolled her eyes at the hundredth time she'd heard that line. "Not a bad haul for sixty bucks. Let's head to K-mart. You'll love it."

They packed their bundles into the jeep and set out, CD cued up to 'Unforgiven'. They pulled out into traffic, slow going along the main downtown street, where decades old shops lined the sidewalks on either side. He observed the faux-angsty, the beau-beatniks, the sorority sisters, the tortured artists, and the I'm-just-here-to-study hodgepodge that roamed the pedestrian district of the college town. The two lanes of old town opened out into the five lanes of new town, and they made their way into arguably the greatest show on Muggle Earth. Attention K-mart shoppers. Inside he saw the most bizarre things he'd witnessed. He truly felt like a stranger in a strange land, a man out of time. She allowed him ample distraction, but refocused him to task from time to time. She gathered supplies for the care and feeding of her new puppy; shampoo that didn't smell like gardenias, a razor for trimming up, some boxer shorts and another Henley, considering how good they looked on him. He'd be best off with his own pillow, and a case for it. Vitamins, for bright eyes and a bushy tail. Oh and maybe some paper plates? She couldn't just continue eating directly from the cans and pans at this point. And they'd be easy to eliminate afterwards in the fire, to elude a marauding bear, if one dared return.

She asked him the time, and he again pulled out the beautiful timepiece. "Daylight's burning," she warned, "we had best get going. Are you hungry? There is a good pizza joint right by the laundromat." His eyes lit up.

"Oh I haven't had pizza in ages!" She considered for a moment that he hadn't had much of anything in ages. "I had it sometimes as a teenager, when I would sneak out on my own." His eyes crinkled at the memory, the mischief as plain as san-serif block.

They got the laundry started first, all her things, and the articles among the newly acquired that needed it. He was again fascinated by the ordinary. The machines swallowed quarters and spun into their noisy water dance one by one, clothing and foam engaged in a Neptunian minuet, a wrestle and a toss, and embrace of arms and legs in a state of undress. As intriguing as the display proved to be, she managed to drag him away with the promise of crispy crust, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, and tomato sauce to his heart's content. It was buffet night, and it was before the rush.

After his seventh slice, she began to wonder if this was her best idea. She did not want him to get sick. She reminded him that he may need to take it easy since he wasn't used to this. After they returned from rotating the laundry into the dryers, he slowed down, but still left her concerned. She did at least get him to hit the salad bar. And he chose wisely, with a colorful healthy selection. His body's cravings guided his hand, it knew what it needed.

At last, they went back to finish up the laundry. She picked through the loads, consolidating the last damp items into one machine. He stood mesmerized, watching her pants and his engaged in this steamy dance together, a hot tumble, writhing beneath the black and burgundy stripes of the pueblo blanket. He took note of cyclical steps of the warm wet waltz, and the 3/4 beat of the spinning drums. He craved a waltz as well, his body's craving again guided his hand.

"Dance with me, Clare." He pulled her, blushing, from the folding table and placed his guiding hand just under her shoulder blade, holding her hand, still grasping a warm sock, in the other. She'd never danced before with a man who knew how to lead; it was uncanny how she knew exactly where to step, all communicated through his touch, his controlling connection between his frame and hers. A touch of sweetness, a touch of control. She felt like they were floating, and she could have sworn she heard violins begin to accompany the music of the machines, Aerosmith's Angel-worthy psychoacoustics. She laughed with delight as they turned and spun between the rows of empty washers.

The spell was broken when the door opened and another patron came in from next door. They and dryer spun to a stop at the same time. The last of the items were quickly folded and all was loaded back into the vehicle. One more stop, then home.

The grocery store proved to be as much of a circus for him as the other stops. She was focused on getting bang-for-your-buck nutrition into him, and he was distracted by the novelty of it all.

"Streaky bacon!" he exclaimed, as they passed the breakfast meats. He picked up three packages and had them in the cart before she had finished checking a carton of eggs for breaks.

"Sweetie, refrigeration, remember?" He was starting to dread the words that always seemed to follow 'sweetie'. She put back two, but one should keep overnight. She picked up some meal replacement beverages to augment his intake, more sweet potatoes, Spam, sardines, some condensed soups, fresh and canned fruits and vegetables; a general assortment of things that would serve to feed them in their semi off-grid existence. Daylight was burning, it was time to wrap this up and get back to camp.


	6. six - A Perfect Day

The CD player was started with the Jeep, spinning tunes and spinning wheels to ferry them back to camp. He chuckled aloud at the lyrics of track nine. "Are you sure this is a strictly Muggle band?"

"Ya know, I forgot about that song, I never considered it when I put this disc in."

"Mostly it reminds me of a dear friend." His eyes sought out the gibbous moon, following over their shoulders in the last hours of daylight.

There was still enough daylight left for them to sort through their haul. She carefully packed the bacon, eggs, and other potential bear-bait into the bucket and used the rope to again haul it up over the branch away from camp, like a hopelessly out of reach pinata.

"I thought this was overkill before our visit from the marauder." she commented, tying off the rope. Her chosen word clawed at his memories.

"The bear won't be back. I saw to that." She met his eyes with a deep concern, remembering the blood on his jaw.

"What did you do? You didn't…"

"No harm. It was just a sternly worded conversation. Oh and, I, um… marked the perimeter, so to speak."

They went through the rest of their haul, choosing what would stay in the vehicle and what would come inside the tiny fabric cabin. He chose a set of fresh clean clothes and a thick towel, and the toiletries she'd picked out for him, and set out for the bath house. While he was gone she started a fire and arranged things inside the tent. It hadn't really been set up for double occupancy the first night. It looked downright cozy now, with two pillows side by side. She swept out the litter that had been tracked in and shook and smoothed the rugs. She set the kettle to heat for tea, and put tea leaves in the mugs, milk and honey at the ready, but still only one spoon to be shared. The fire was strong and hot; she stood before it warming herself and the pueblo blanket, waiting for him.

She poured the hot water as he walked into camp, towel over his shoulders. The steam of the shower followed by the chill of the night had colored his cheeks and abolished the dark circles. He had neatly trimmed his whiskers and mustache. His damp hair hung in combed ringlets. She was astonished at how much younger he looked. He was a new man. She welcomed him into the warm blanket. He pressed his hand into her back again, as he had in the laundromat, but lower, closer. A touch of control, a touch of sweetness. He led her in a closer, slower waltz, accompanied only by the music of the stars, the crackle of the fire. "Today was perfect," he spoke softly into her ear, laying his jaw on her warm cheek. While the tea steeped, they swayed liked the pines around them, feet firmly rooted on the ground, but spirits soaring high above, little sparks floating from the embers, tiny bits of escaped flames aspiring to be stars themselves.

"It still is," she whispered. Sparks, butterflies, or maybe dozens of luminous moths burned in her stomach. She relished the sensation, but feared it just as strongly. Would a kiss make this day more perfect, or ruin it completely? She'd known him barely more than a day, but it felt like a week at least. He was ten years older, from a profoundly different world, and on the run. How could she possibly…? _Il dit a son tour, Ouvrez votre porte, pour le Dieu d'Amour_. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. It was not altogether the sigh that is supposed to happen at the end of a perfect day. He reacted by planting a sweet kiss on her forehead, then pulling away to reach the tea. He seasoned her cup and his: a touch of sweetness, a swirl of cream, a shared spoon. Patience mellows the fire, transforms the scalding into the soothing.

She felt his hair; it was nearly dry from their slow dance by the fire. She felt the tangles, still unattended. "Would you like me to help you with these?"

He felt the knots with his own hand. "I would." They carried their tea and his post-shower bundle into the tent. She sat cross-legged and had him lie belly down where she could reach him. She handed him a crossword book and pen, and lit and positioned the candle lantern to light them both. While she stroked with her brush, he called out clues, working through tangled words along with tangled hair. In the style of Alexander, she had to employ the scissors to dispatch some of the hopeless knots.

A hundred strokes of the pen, a hundred strokes of the brush, lulled him nodding into the book. She replaced it with his pillow and ran a last few dozen strokes through the absolved hair, across the emancipated scalp that had hungered for the attention of a good scratch for ages. He emitted a purr, which soon faded into a snore worthy of a button-eared Steiff. She slipped into her night clothes and settled in beside him. It truly had been a perfect day.


	7. seven - A New Man

Claret awoke enough to turn. Over easy. Sirius was nearly finished dressing. He sat by her to pull on warm socks. He stroked her back. A touch of sweetness.

"I'll light the fire." He let her sleep. She slipped back into her fog.

"How do you like your eggs?" he prompted. He had been industrious while she remained the filling in an omelet of still-warm bedding. The fire was lit, the bacon cooked, and the pan was waiting for its next duty.

"Over medium," she groaned, and turned herself sunny side up. She felt scrambled at first, but then realized the luxury of having breakfast made for her. She sat up in her nest. Outside he was poaching the eggs gently in the hot bacon grease. She slipped on his new boots and ventured out of her shell wrapped in the pueblo blanket. It was early, and chilly. She quivered like a six-minute egg. He carefully turned the eggs; keeping them whole would keep the grease clean for reuse with another round of eggs later on. The table was already set with two mugs of Tang, a pair of mismatched forks, and a paper plate full of crisp bacon. He plated his two eggs and set hers back over the fire to finish for just a moment, then served her and sat. She felt coddled.

"Oh, Clare _du soleil?_ How are you this morning?" He sounded like a new man. She, on the other hand hadn't slept as well as he had, and she was most definitely not a morning person. She squinted at the morning sun. He would have to serve as her moon and guardian star this time of day. She sipped her Tang and crunched on a piece of bacon.

"Bacon makes it almost worth crawling out of bed for. Why so early?" How could anyone be so ready-to-go this early?

"Responsibilities." Before he left, he burned the plates and stirred the fire to tame it so she could go back to bed without worrying about it. "Go back to bed, sweetie," he told her, using her sympathetic word. "I will be back in a couple of hours."

She crawled back into her cocoon and opened the crossword book to last nights unfinished page. Six letters, V_N_R_. The clue read 'love of pursuit, pursuit of love'. She was back asleep before she could think about it, and before she could wonder what his responsibility was.

She dreamed she was chasing rabbits. Not eating them, or killing them, but interrupting them. Interrupting their, well, what do bunnies do? The next thing she knew, she was an eagle, ripping their hearts out and soaring away. The dreams faded and swirled, and all she knew was unconsciousness.

The morning was warming, the sun was high, when Sirius walked back into the quiet camp. He swung by the jeep to take a quick look in the mirror to make sure there were no traces, like yesterday. His cheeks were ruddy, his still eyes dilated slightly, even in the daylight. He stole silently into the tent. Dropping to all fours, he stalked her.

A low growl of hot breath in her ear woke her. His whiskers brushed her cheek. The assumption of safety, the sensation she had held securely from the moment she'd first let him into her camp, slipped from her grip and shattered like a Faberge egg. Even that night he'd snapped at her, she felt it was directed at her safety. But now, she felt like prey. She felt him hovering over her, his knees planted on either side of her, some of her hair caught under his one hand on the bed, her shoulder pinned under the other. A touch of control, a touch of sweetness. What had gotten into him?

"Venery," he purred, " _Prete ma ta plume._ " _Je n'ai pas de plume, je suis dans mon lit._ He plucked the pen from where it lay in the fold of the book thay still lay spread beneath her cheek, open to the page she'd fallen asleep over. He penned the missing E, E and Y into the spaces between the V, N and R. He rolled over beside her. "One of my favorite words." His eyes sparked, then softened. He changed directions like wind in a storm. The lamb shed its wolf's clothing.

"Did you sleep well, my cosset?" He stroked the loose hair out of her wide eyes. She was breathless, heart racing. "Were you having a bad dream? You look frightened." What had just happened? Part of her wanted it to happen again. Safe isn't always what a girl craves to feel. Nonetheless, it felt so good when he slid his arm under her and pulled her close. She nestled her cheek into his shoulder, pressing it into the waffle weave of his new burgundy Henley. She smelled the clean musk of his sweat. She found herself stroking the soft fabric. Her hand slipped under it at his waist and traced back up his ribs, already filling out, if only through rehydration. It felt good to have her hand sandwiched between the cloth and his skin. He made such a good pillow. She sighed a deep sigh, not unlike the one by the fire. He kissed her gently on the forehead, such a sweet, genuine kiss. But this time he didn't stop. He stroked her cheek and lifted her chin. As sweet as the kisses had been that he'd sown on her forehead, this one was sweeter. Sweeter, but not innocent. Hot and dangerous, like tea that hadn't cooled enough. Changing like the weather. A tempest in a teacup.

She wanted it to last forever, but it didn't. Patience, a touch of sweetness, a touch of control. Even when it was over, it wasn't over. His lips were still right there, just barely grazing hers, his hot breath on her skin, a kiss just out of reach. She almost forgot how to breathe again. This could be the most intoxicating single moment she'd ever experienced. As suddenly as the storm swept in, it vanished. He released her chin and kissed her again on the forehead.

"Let's go for a walk."


	8. eight - The Hike

Claret was still flustered from the storm that had just blown through her. While she made a trek up the hill, her companion gathered items for the outing into his pack. He hadn't shown her anything to push her paradigm since the event with the bear; it was time to see if she could take a little more. She didn't actually see me change, he thought, I wonder how she'll handle it.

"Handle what, Siri?" Elbow deep in his bag, he hadn't heard her walk up behind him.

"I have things to show you. Things you haven't seen. I need to know you will be OK with what you might see."

"If you give me a little head's up, some advanced warning, I might not be so bowled over."

"I didn't exactly have time to plan that."

"Good point. So show me what's in the bag. I suspect it is not ordinary?"

He grinned and stood back. "Don't fall in, dear. Maybe I should keep hold of your hand."

She laughed and gave him her hand. She looked in, then reached in, then leaned in. "Holy shit. Um. Wow. I, um. Wow." She pulled herself back out and blinked. "OK, that… was cool."

"Do you think you are ready to see me… change?"

"Maybe?"

"Let's try this. Come inside." He led her into the tent and peeled off his Henley. He put her forefinger on the amalgamation tattoo on his bare sternum. "Focus on my eyes. Don't blink." With her fingertip, he began to trace the symbol's outline. His eyes went from the faded slate to a warm yellow.

"OK so far?" Wide-eyed, she nodded. His hair started looking woolier, and his chest was not so smooth as it had been. He let go of her hand and let her take control. "Take it a little further, when you are ready."

She traced another half inch… she could feel the hair on his chest getting thicker. His structure started to morph. His eyes watered and he trembled. His cheeks flushed. It was not comfortable at all to hold past a certain state. He had to keep up the charade, it was important to him that she thought she was in control.

"Oh God, I'm hurting you." She could almost feel the pain in his bones. She ran her finger backward over the track it had already traced. He reverted and dropped to his haunches. She crouched with him. He put her hand back on his chest and looked her in the eyes.

"Do it quickly."

She did. He changed. Profoundly. Her hand was still on the furry chest. The soulful eyes blinked back at her. The animal rested his snout on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him. His hot breath felt safe and familiar on her neck. She didn't freak out; she was OK. He raised his head and put a heavy paw in her hand, then looked her in the eyes. She watched as he transformed back again into her human companion, eyes still yellow, chest still furry. She stroked the fading fur, and watched the slate creep back into his eyes, his hand still in hers. The silence between them was drowned out by the pounding in her chest. This time, she leaned forward and kissed him; sweet, innocent, heartfelt, just like the ones he reserved for her forehead.

"I think you are ready." He stood and donned his Henley. All the fur had vanished.

He led her out of the camp, down the trail he had first appeared from. They crossed the meadow where the tall grasses had yellowed, the wildflowers had gone to seed and faded. They ducked into close tunnels of laurels and ferns, between moss-covered hemlocks and lichened poplars. He helped her scramble over rocks and tangles of ancient roots. She could hear the misty white sound of rushing water as they descended. The sound grew louder, and the trees parted to reveal the beautiful veil of the falls. A bridge fashioned from a split log lay across the rocks where the pool spilled into the continuing flow. He held her hand crossing the slick wood, pausing in the center to take in the shower of negative ions and sweet cool mist. The sound was intoxicating and cleansing all at once. On the other side, the trail diverged; one branch led further downstream, a dogleg to the left led uphill.

As they climbed, the trees thinned and the ground grew rockier. The trail faded as the high meadow opened. The grass was close, the laurels spare. Low, stunted evergreens clung to the windblown ground. There was little to break the wind. Rocky outcroppings towered above, clinging to the sharp slopes. A plain, level patch lay spread at the foot of an overhanging outcropping with a shadowed cleft, completely closed by loose rock.

"Welcome to my pied a terre. I have someone I want you to meet." He took her hand and led her forward. The cleft shimmered, like she was seeing it through water flowing over glass. A few steps closer, and it cleared. The opening was not blocked. "Approach slowly, and be quiet. He can be odd with new people."

"What is he?" she asked, before stepping into the cleft. "Prepare me, please."

"Buckbeak is a hippogriff. Think eagle in front, horse in back." She tried to wrap her head around it. She really couldn't until the powerful haunches came into view. He was asleep, but jerked his feathered head up as soon as he caught her scent. Sirius approached him with a bow. The great grey beast rose, shook and bowed, then regarded her.

"Bow, but look him in the eyes," he instructed, stroking his crest. "Bux, this is Claret. She is our friend."

He eyed her, scratched at the floor, and screeched. Then he bowed, and stepped to her, stretching his feathered neck out for a rub. Before she fully grasped what she was seeing, she reached a hand out. The soft warm feathers yielded to her stroke. She was dumbfounded. He nibbled at a button on her shirt, nearly picking it off.

"Bux, we mustn't eat her buttons." He brushed the beak away from her clothing. "Here, feed him this." He handed her a limp hare. She took it, hesitantly, and held it out. Bux clutched it in his razor talons, and with his sharp beak, tore into it with gusto, but then only ate half. She noticed that the nest was scattered with bones and bits of torn pelt.

"Responsibilities? Makes sense now." She pointed at the litter. "How? You… catch his prey for him?"

"Padfoot does the hunting." Bux preened, cleaning his bloodied beak. Now she understood the blood she'd found on Siri's chin. He led her under the beast's massive wing. She glided her hand across the sleek broad back. "Maybe in a few nights, we can come back and I will take you for a ride." The thought of it made her shiver. Fear, wonder, joy, cold, hungry. Hungry? Where did that come from?

She turned to find Sirius reaching into the pack and pulling out some apples, jerky and the sweet red wine. "Sit with me, Clare. Have a nosh." He led her out into the afternoon sun, to the leeward side of a sheltering rock. He pulled her close beside him, and sliced apple wedges for her.

The sun made wine sparkle like a queen's jewels. It helped mellow the rollercoaster of a day she'd had. These days were becoming a habit. Things were so strange in her new world. Things kept changing. She felt the warmth of her thoughtful companion. The sensation brought back the heat of his breath in her ear, both when she was stalked, and when he changed in front of her eyes. She remembered the fear, the breathless moment of that dangerous kiss. She felt that heat flush through her all over again. Her heart skipped a beat, just like it had before. She remembered the sweet care of the other kisses, the sweet gentle ones on her brow, and it calmed her. What spells did he have her under?

She leaned in close and whispered softly into his ear, "Thank you. For changing my world." She laid her head on his shoulder and nibbled on jerky. Whatever spells she was under, she was more alive now than she had felt in years.

They finished their light late lunch and packed up, then walked around the craggy windswept hill. They gazed out across the rippled landscape, devoid of any sign of human presence for miles and miles. The pair explored the ecosystem that survived here among the crumbled majesty of ancient mountains. They found furry mosses sheltering in soil filled crevices, tiny soldier lichens and fairy cups clinging to the rocks and on dead wood. The patchwork lichens were a wonder of nature; each a symbiotic, mutualistic pair, bonded life to life for life from two completely different kingdoms. One served as the guardian, the protector, the provider of shelter and structure, and the other the nurturer, the provider of nourishment: a mycobiont and a photobiont, together, yin and yang, clinging to life. Apart, neither could survive here.

The shadows began to stretch, light skimming the peaks and ridges. They checked on the sleeping beast before turning toward home. Hand in hand they descended into the trees, and found the trail back to the falls. They lingered this time, sharing a long kiss on the bridge, thrilling but not dangerous, more warm than hot, sweet but not entirely innocent. Again she felt that sweet intoxication, but this time there was only one cup of wine to blame it on. The sun tried hard to reach into the dim forest, but weakened with every step. Though the light was failing, she felt safe with her fierce guardian, her wolf in lamb's clothing. By the time they crossed the meadow, the yellowed grass was silvered by a strong bright moon.

It wasn't quite as cold as previous nights had been, but they needed a fire for supper. She'd decided to combine some canned spinach and milk, Spam, parmesan, and eggs to make a sort of a quiche, with a crust improvised from tortillas. She needed coals to rake over the top of the three legged spider's lid. He got the fire going while she fetched the bear-bucket. _Car dans sa cuisine, On bat le briquet_. By the time everything was assembled, he had what she needed ready. She smiled, suspecting he had used unnatural means, and wondered how often he had done so before. She was growing accustomed to this symbiosis, and by the looks of it, so was he.


	9. nine - Fly By Night

Saturday meant a quick trip into town. She had made a promise to call her sister every weekend, and it would be a chance to pick up more bacon. After finishing last night's cold quiche, Siri dispatched Paddy to run down the trail alone to attend to responsibilities, while Claret battened hatches and secured the camp. Ruddy-cheeked and wild-eyed, he returned in record time, and attacked her with a dangerous kiss. The hunt always stirred his blood, and the run back kept it hot.

She popped in Rush's Chronicles and they hit the road. She drove to the west end of town; he could browse in Sweet Charity's while she used the payphone across the street.

"Isn't it getting cold up there? We worry."

"Scarlet, I'm fine, I promise. How's school going?" She dared not mention she'd met someone, she didn't want to open that can of worms.

"We're gathering at Aunt Rue's this year for Thanksgiving."

"That sounds tolerable." Her grandmother's half sister was always her favorite.

"Mom really wants to see you. I do too." It had been hard to face her since what had happened. Mom was uncompromisingly pro-life.

She saw her companion emerge from the store with a big bag and a bigger grin. She loved those eyes when they crinkled with joy and mischief. He stuffed the package into the jeep and leaned against it, arms folded, waiting for her.

"Scarlet, I gotta go. Tell everyone I'm fine, and I'll see them Thanksgiving. Love you."

"Love you too, Clare"

She crossed the street to see what treasures awaited. He grabbed her when she got close, and pulled her into his chest. She was greeted by a warm spicy musky pocket of fragrance that melded perfectly with the sweat that lingered from his morning hunt. It didn't mask him, it enhanced him; the hot, dangerous part of him. Her heart skipped a beat and her knees weakened. His hot breath in her ear asked, "Do you like it?" All she could do was nod. "I got you something too." As far as she was concerned, whatever he was wearing had been gift enough for her. He opened a tiny bottle and turned it up to his fingertip, then dabbed it behind her ears and on her wrists, then wiped the last bit through her hair. "Tresor, for my treasure." He showed her the tiny bottle. That and the Obsession he was wearing, were both less than a quarter bottle left of each, but were quite the find.

The grocery store was a quick trip too, bacon, more eggs, a few more things to keep it interesting while building his strength. And something special for tonight: a game hen and rice, and canned biscuits for dumplings. While they were in town she treated him to lunch at Wendy's. She was pretty certain that was New World for him. Cheerwine, a Carolina Classic and a Single were added to his list of favorite meals. He enjoyed town, but he most enjoyed being anywhere with Claret. Symbiosis suited him.

It was days before Claret felt ready the promised outing with the hippogriff. She had started feeling safe with him, regardless of being stalked nearly every morning after his hunt. Siri packed his bag for an overnight stay, and she, her patchwork leather fanny pack. A jug of clean water, her katadyn filter just in case, supper, tea and breakfast, the bedding; these all fit in his enchanted pack with room to spare.

They set out before the afternoon faded, to allow for the twilight beneath the hemlocks. As they approached the high meadow, they gathered fuel for the campfire. They set up camp in the fading light, a fire just outside the cleft, and a cozy nest inside. They paused to take in a stunning sunset.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement. The dusk had brought out the hares. It was only right that Bux be provided for. This would be the first time she'd see Paddy hunt. She found it a bit disconcerting to see her sweet warm guardian transform into what seemed like a cold relentless killer. She observed that he was being humane, killing with a quick snap of the neck; each one a clean kill, trading these lives to sustain the life of the creature that had borne him away from a death sentence an ocean away. Was his coursing hares any different from her Spam, bacon, eggs, burgers and game hens? Mesmerized, she continued to watch the dance of death. The prey zigged and zagged but he was fast and powerful. His great jaws were like a steel trap. One by one, he added to the collection, until the rank and file of the fallen numbered six, enough for a pre-flight snack and tomorrow's feeding.

Transformed, ruddy-cheeked, wild-eyed, he wiped a sanguine dribble from his chin as he loped up the hill toward her. Venery had his blood up for sure. His inflammation washed over her in that hot dangerous kiss he had brought her before, but this time it was hotter, still boiling, with a slight taste of fresh blood. His eyes were molten gold and his breath still came in steamy pants. His musky heat mingled with the scent of the cologne he'd worn. He loved the effect the combination had on her, his sweetest, most coveted prey. Patience and control were cast to the wind. He was a wild thing, and she was his tender quarry. He scooped her up and carried her to the nest.

Caught up in the urgency of the hot monsoon that stormed across the cold mountain, she could not stem the tide, his nor her own. Flesh was laid bare by not one, but two pairs of hands, working together to abolish every impediment to their first complete union. Every caution she had ever promised herself shattered to dust and blew away, a pheromone laden sirocco of desiccated intentions. Her fanny pack lay out of reach, condoms at the ready, but it was too late, he was on her like a half-starved animal, and she was in no way interested in stopping him. Half-starved indeed, unfed since 1981. It dawned on her that he had been cloistered away from the entire AIDS epidemic. That realization coupled with the Norplant arc on her arm, left her with only one singular care in the whole vast universe. Venery. Complete and utter surrender to him and his needs, her own needs.

When the tempest was spent, she lay sandwiched between the fur of the cloak and the fur that lingered on his chest. She held him and let him relax. The skin to skin contact was essential to completing the chemical bond of this fusion, a touch of sweetness. His fur faded, his eyes slated, his cheeks lost their heat. The button-eared Steiff snored a lullaby chorus. A hunger was fed at long last. But everyone knows a fire fed grows.

She let him sleep a few hours, dozing with him off and on, then pulled herself away and dressed, and lit the neglected fire. The scent of supper warming roused him. He greeted his consort with a long sweet kiss and a lingering squeeze, then fetched a brace of hares. He fed Bux a snack before he sat to feed himself.

They sat by the fire sipping tea with a touch of sweetness, waiting for the world to fall asleep. From time to time, a meteor streaked across the sky, early birds from the Orionids that would peak a few nights later, breadcrumbs from the trail Halley's comet left. Just past midnight, Sirius rose, both the star and the man. He led the magnificent winged creature out into the night.

"Ready, Claret?"

She nodded, already regretting having eaten even a light meal. He mounted right behind the wings, and pulled her up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and locked her fingers together. A squeeze of his legs sent the beast charging down the mountainside, until he spread his giant wings and soared over the scrubby ground. She buried her face in the thick wool sweater in front of her.

"Don't hide. Clare, you have to see this. I promise, you are safe."

She peeked, one eye, then the other. The trio soared around the cleft rock. The campfire was not visible, and the cleft again appeared blocked by rubble. She clung tightly to her chauffeur's warmth as they ascended into the cold night sky. Here and there, outposts of civilization twinkled with electric lights. They wheeled and turned over the rippled landscape, then picked a direction and flew over the college town. Even this late at night, the place was awake, so they stayed at a careful altitude.

This was truly exhilarating, and absolutely amazing, but it didn't stop her mind from going back a few hours. His scent, his warmth, being wrapped around him, that was truly what kept her heart racing. She loosened her white knuckles and slipped her hands under his sweater. Once her fingers had time to warm, she slid one hand up towards his heart, and the other stroked the arrowhead of soft fur pointing up to his navel, that one tuft that never vanished.

"We should be heading back. It's getting cold." She felt the words more than she heard them. The courser streaked through the sky like comet dust. The giant wings beat like a massive Atlas moth, under the canopy of stars in the moonlit sky. They took a last turn around the hilltop, and settled back to solid ground. Siri let the beast wander around a while to finish cooling down. Bux scratched and nibbled at the vegetation, then headed into the cleft for a nap.

They sat on lichened stones with their backs to the remains of the fire, counting stars and exchanging tickles. They watched Canis Major chase Lepus across the sky at the Hunter's starry feet. Even the sky was full of venery. His favorite word. He must have felt her tremble; he pulled her close and sowed a sweet kiss on her forehead, then led her gently to their nest to see if he might find some way to keep her warm.


	10. ten - Jersey Girls

She'd spent the past few weeks immersed in the most amazing distractions she could ever hope for, but just as every flight must have a landing, so must hers. The campground office reminded her that the season was nearly over, and that they'd be closing in a few weeks. It hadn't been a concern for her before, she had options, but Bux would not be so easily accommodated. She entertained the thought of moving into the cleft, but that was no place for more than a night or two this time of year. And with the camp closed, where would they leave the jeep?

It also weighed heavily on her that she just wasn't equipped to feed Siri properly within the limits of a camp kitchen. She'd taken him to town on Thursday night for pizza again. He was getting stronger, but barely. The hunts were hard on him, the hares that were left were the hardest to catch, and wiry. Buckbeak just wasn't looking well cared-for. The weather had been forgiving; it could be much colder, and it had been dry since he'd been there, but it wouldn't last.

Saturday came around again, and that meant a call to Scarlet. She leaned as deeply as she could into the enclosure that barely sheilded the wind.

"She wants you to call her. She insists. You know how she gets." No one could say no to Aunt Rue, she knew this.

"Fine, I will call her right now. Love you, bye." She hung up the receiver and pulled her calling card back out. The cold metal buttons were such a contrast to the sweet voice they'd connect her to. It rang six times.

"Wilder residence," she answered, "Ruby speaking."

"Aunt Rue, it's me—"

"Claret! Darling! I've been dreaming about you lately. I miss you so much. Are you staying warm?"

"I'm doing fine, I miss you too."

"I want you to come visit me."

"Aunt Rue, I will be there for Thankgiving, I promise." One simply does not refuse an invitation from Aunt Rue, especially if there will be cooking.

"Dear, I want to see you before then. And I want you to bring your friend."

"My what? Rue, I—" She hid her blush, though no one was around to see.

"You heard me, young lady. I hear him in your voice. You havent sounded like this in ages."

"Aunt Rue…"

"You can't just unleash the whole family on him at once, now can you?" She had a point. "I will be cooking on Thursday. You had better both show up. And bring your laundry, child." It was settled.

She crossed the street and told Siri about the upcoming dinner date. He was excited about the chance to meet another Muggle. He found a nice shirt to wear for dinner; he wanted to make a good impression.

Wednesday night was spent on the mountain, hunting for Bux's breakfast, and all that had come to entail. Venery, one way or another, left him exhausted, but at least he slept well next to her skin. In the morning, they'd feed Bux and head back to camp to shower and dress, then set out for Aunt Rue's house. It wasn't far as the crow flies, maybe 40 miles, but an hour and a half by the twisty mountain roads.

Siri always looked nice with a fresh trim, but today he looked downright dapper. He combined his new button-up with the waistcoat and jacket he'd found that first trip to Sweet Charity's. He stuck with the old black jeans she'd first seen him in, and went with the black engineer's boots rather the worn, waterstained tan ones Claret was so fond of stepping into when they weren't on his feet. She chose the soft burgundy sweater Aunt Rue had knitted for her, and her least faded jeans. The pair climbed into the jeep and set out, John Denver in the CD player, singing about country roads and feather beds. When 'Annie's Song' played, he reached for her hand. Aunt Rue would like him, how could she not?

After their hair finished drying, they zipped up the windows and turned the heat down a bit. The twisty roads made for a stimulating ride. She was accustomed to negotiating the switchbacks, so she didn't slow down, but if anyone can stomach a hippogriff flight, surely this was no challenge. Although, she did see him reach for the bar a few times.

As they got nearer to the Wilder homeplace, the homes of the communities they drove through clung like lichens to the steep hollows. Cold white streams tumbled down mossy rocks and into culverts under the road, where they were conveyed safely to the river that had cut and sculpted the valley for eons. Well groomed lawns sloped down to the banks from houses perched roadside, high above the variably rushing or calm waters of the main fork. They passed roadside stands with scores of discounted pumpkins, huge mesh bags of cabbages, jugs of apple cider, plain mason jars of local honey, and red or black waxed wedges from the local cheese factory.

A left turn would take them across the trout stream and up the narrow, twisting, barely paved road. Even the white and yellow lines gave up half way. The pavement would drop to gravel and the gravel to rocky dust by the time they reached the old white house. Faded hydrangea stalks and dried up poppy pods hinted at the colors that thrived here in another season; birdbaths lay askew to keep the freeze and thaw from causing damage, but feeders were full of seeds or hung with suet. Turnip tops and cabbages showed themselves in rows alongside the drive. Cats scattered as Dink and Seelie came barking around the corner of the barn, wagging and smiling with mismatched eyes and speckled muzzles. Towels and underpants swayed in the afternoon breeze on the clothesline, reminding Siri to carry in their own laundry.

Claret gave a few sharp tugs to the rope that hung from the bell by the steps leading up to the back door. The clear rich tone echoed up the hollow and back. No one ever used the front door except salesmen, and salesmen gave up before the white and yellow lines did. She led her consort up the weathered steps, through the squeaky storm door and into the back porch. The overzealous spring slammed the door with a bang, ever vigilant at keeping wind and weather away from the stacks of boxes, buckets, and bins that invariably lined the shelter. The second door lead directly into the kitchen, where Rue was turning out rolls to rise. The room smelled warm and yeasty, rich and buttery.

"Claret Elise! Sweet child, let me hug your neck!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oooh you've got your color back, bless your heart."

Siri stood back, taking it all in, eyes shining. This place was amazing, but not as unfamiliar as he had expected. A tall table suited more for working height than dining dominated the kitchen. A double drainboard cast iron sink matched its gravity under a double window lined with cobalt blue jars and bottles. At one end, an electric stove sat laden with pots and crocks, at the other a refrigerator hummed contentedly by the side windows. A hand crank coffee grinder hung on the wall by the door.

The room blended together with a wood paneled den that housed an oil heater, a converted treadle sewing machine, several soft chairs and a decades old sofa, threadbare but covered in quilts. Every seat had an afgan laid over the back. Overfull bookshelves lined every available inch of wall except where the china cabinet stood by the beveled-glass paned door to the parlor. A coffee table groaned under layers of 1980's magazines, two candy dishes and a nut bowl, miscellaneous sewing supplies, a thick hardbound dictionary and a stack of tattered crossword books. Past the couch, a door allowed a glimpe of a set of wide stairs led upward to the unused bedrooms. Another doorway, opposite the great table, led to a modest bedroom. A lacy bedspread and eyelet lace pillowcases were contrasted by a well-worn fuzzy brown teddy bear with a disheleved red bow.

"Siri, this is my Great Aunt Rue, my grandmother's half sister, and this is -"

"Sirius Black," he held out his hand.

"Ruby Rose Wilder," she announced herself with a curtsy, accepting his hand.

"Enchante, madame," he bowed, and pressed his lips to the wrinkled hand. She giggled and blushed. She liked him instantly.

"Let me set the rolls to rise, and I will get you something to drink." She scurried about, finishing shaping the rolls then conveying the pan, covered with a tea towel, to the top of the fridge. She pulled out a pitcher and two mismatched glasses and filled them, and set out a dish of chicken salad, then sliced some homemade bread. Supper wouldn't be for hours, but no one could show up here without being fed, and those in the know knew to come hungry.

Siri took Clare's jacket, then removed his own and laid them over the leather chair with the swan's necks arms. He held Clare's tall chair and pushed her to the table, then settled himself into the one next to her.

"Haven't you been feeding this young man?" She spread the slices generously and cut the sandwiches into triangles and pushed a plate towards them, before slicing and filling more. He took a wedge and tasted it… it was delicious, as was the second. Claret slipped away to start laundry. The sandwiches were vanishing while she was gone.

"Clare, you simply must try these…"

"Before they disappear? I know, she makes the pickles herself. Just wait til you try the rolls with her fresh churned butter."

Siri paused for a sip of the cold beverage. "What is this delightful elixir?"

"Clearly this young man just ain't from 'round here," she observed. "That, dear, is Southern hospitality with a capital T. Sweet tea, dear, with plenty of lemon." She looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the laundry. "Oh, I'd better gather those in!" She whisked out the door with a basket. Clare rose to follow.

"Come out, I'll show you the place." She grabbed several wedges of sandwich and headed out after her sweet aunt, Siri in close tow. By the clothesline, two pairs of dewey doe eyes gazed at the trio. Belle and Daphne, the Jersey girls, watched as towels were taken down and folded, and bloomers tucked away. They'd be waiting in the barn at twilight, ready for sundown milking. Siri took the basket to the steps, and Rue stooped among the rows of turnips and pulled several with lush tops, shaking away the soil. Clare led him by the chicken coop, through the barn, by the pig pens, and into the pasture. Belle and Daphne wandered over to see what was going on, soon joined by the two Aussies. Claret pointed up the hollow to the trees at the tops of the ridges on either side, explaining the the property's pastures stretched up and over those ridges, with wild lands beyond.

Hand in hand, they walked the pasture for maybe half an hour, Jersey girls' bells clanging behind them, til suddenly, the girls turned and ambled toward the barn.

"Let's go see what we can do to help."


	11. eleven - Birthday

In the barn, they found Rue pitching hay to the Jersey girls. She surrendered the fork to Siri, and he continued while she fetched her stool and positioned the impeccably clean bucket. Rue showed him how milking was accomplished, had him wash up, and let him try his hand on Belle. She was more experienced than Daph, and infinitely patient. Chewing on a mouthful of alfalfa and red clover, she turned her head and gazed at him with her soft wet eyes. When he finally got the hang of it, he was delighted. He laughed aloud. His cheek pressed up against the warm flanks and his eyes crinkled. She went behind him to finish off stripping, then turned to the impatient other Jersey.

Siri was shaping up to be a fine farmhand, if overdressed. He carried the bucket into the kitchen and hefted it up onto the enameled drainboard. She ran one side of the sink with cold water and set the bucket in to cool. She fetched a crock of the previous days' cream and poured it into the churn, and set it by Siri's chair.

"Here, dear, try your hand at this." She showed him how to move the dasher without splashing out the top. She handed Clare a paring knife and a mound of potatoes to peel. She tucked four game hens into the hot oven, laid sliced salt pork into a heavy skillet, and turned to the greens in the dishpan on the other drainboard. She danced a perfectly choreographed and well-practiced dance from stove to sink to fridge and back again, smooth and flowing as Siri's laundromat waltz. She set a pot before Clare and demonstrated a slice for her to match, and checked Siri's churn. At some point a handful of carrots appeared, waiting to be exchanged for coins.

The waltz continued, the kitchen filled with warm rich smells, especially when the rolls went in. Rue drained and salted the butter and paddled it, and scraped it into a bowl to serve soft and fresh. She washed the churn and set the dasher aside to scald later. There were more urgent things afoot. She scooped out a ladle of the fresh milk, cream already rising, and stirred in some flour, scraping the mixture into the potatoes. Maple syrup and bourbon sweetened the air with a sizzle and a cloud. Clare began to set the table with mismatched plates and silverware. No two pieces seemed to match. She looked at Siri, and held up a spoon and a fork. "How can you have a favorite spoon if they are all alike?" she said to him. He gave her a wink. Somehow the whole dance came together at once, and supper was served.

The hens were perfectly golden, with crispy skin, the creamed potatoes were a perfect dichotomy of fluffy starchy slabs and creamy sauce. The bright orange, mapley sweet of the carrots offset the dark vinegar-kissed greens, and the soft fresh butter swooned when spread on hot yeasty rolls. Sirius thought he was in paradise. Clare and Rue exchanged smiles watching him enjoy the height of homegrown Southern hospitality.

"Tenny, dear, save room for pie." Rue stepped to the fridge and emerged with a bowl of sweet cream and a buttermilk chess pie, handing it to Clare to slice while she whipped. No one made note of her slip. She carved the meat off the fourth hen and gathered the bones for stock. Nothing made better chicken and dumplings than game hens.

"Ladies, that was unlike anything I have ever had. Singularly wonderful." He pushed himself from the table, stood, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and started toward the sink with his dishes. He slipped them into the hot soapy water and took up a rag before he was shooed away. Only then did he notice the drug-store calendar hanging on the side of the humming fridge.

"Is it November already?" Dinner date on Thursday, he remembered.

"Yes, young man, today is the third."

His eyebrows twisted, his eyes glimmered. A pool formed and spilled down one cheek. Claret caught it before it could flow into his neatly trimmed whiskers. He squeezed her so tight she could hardly hear what he was saying. "…given me the best birthday I have had since I was practically a child." He released Clare and spun Rue around and hugged her as heartily. "Claret, Ruby Rose, thank you." He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

"We should drink a toast! Let me see what I have…"

"Siri, did you bring it? The bottle from that night?" She took down three delicate cordial glasses while he fetched it in. The night air had chilled it. They retired to the cozy sitting area and Siri poured.

"To greener pastures, and ever better days," Rue led.

"To favorite forks and comfortable spoons," Claret continued.

"May they last forever." Siri finished.

"Oh, I haven't tasted anything so delightful since I last saw Uncle Tenny." A wave of nostalgia flashed over her, then realization. "You remind me so much of him, young man. It's uncanny, really. Come, let me show you his things."

She led them into the main foyer of the two story front of the house, and up the creaking stairs. Floorboards squeaked with every footstep from the head of the stairs to the east bedroom.

"Won't you stay the night? These mountain roads are treacherous in the dark. Won't you stay the season, it will be too cold to camp soon." Rue had wanted her to stay here these last four weeks. She didn't like the idea of her being so alone.

"Sweet Rue, I would love to, but we have responsibilities in the morning."

The door already stood open, and a century old iron bed stood made with a down comforter and an heirloom quilt, freshly turned down for guests. Against one wall stood a tall chifferobe, stained rich and dark, walnut or mahogany, as dark as Siri's hair. The column of drawers was flanked left and right by twin doors, set each with a beveled mirror, matched in form by the clear glass in the cubby door. The hinges sang when she opened it, She pulled out an elegantly framed photograph of a well dressed young man with sparkling eyes. Clare failed to see any resemblance beyond the man's build.

"Sweetie, it's not in his looks, it's in his demeanor, his spirit. It's in the way being around him makes me feel. He was such a charmer. " She opened a drawer.

"Do you remember how you loved this book?" She pulled out the aged tome and handed it to her. "You used to look at this for hours, before you could even read." She paged through the rich illustrations, each one awakening a tiny, long hidden memory. Rue opened the doors revealing a rich assortment of gentleman's clothing. Siri's eyes sparkled.

Half paying attention, Clare came to a page with a rich illustration of very familiar animal. She sat on the bed, her astonishment punctuated by a sharp squeak of old springs, while Rue rummaged for more treasure. "This was his. Open it. Go ahead, take it out, feel it in your hand." Claret only half heard Rue saying to Siri.

"Siri?" He was absorbed in the things Rue was showing him. Holding her place, she closed the cover enough to read the name of the book, and turned back to the pages. She was reading ' _Sweetsilver's Practical Animal Husbandry: An Illustrated Guide, Encompassing Beasts Great and Small, Mundane and Extraordinary_ '.

"Just a moment, Clare."

"Well Bless my soul! It never did that for me." Rue's voice was still at the edge of Claret's awareness.

"Siri?" While she read the text, her eyes grew wide. She stood to hand him the volume.

Two voices urged…

"Sirius—"

"Claret—"

… then merged: "You have to see this, " Both looked up for the first time. In his hand, she beheld a turned rosewood and onyx wand, glowing brightly at the tip. In her book, he could see a full color diagram of a hippogriff, accompanied by extensive text.

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to see the likes of that again before I leave this earth. I used to feed one pumpkins when Tenny would visit when I was a girl, back before Mother passed. Magnificent creatures." She sighed.

"Pumpkins? Are they not strictly carnivores?" Siri asked, regarding the text he was skimming over. Clare was too stunned to speak. She'd heard stories of Uncle Tennyson before, but now she saw them in a whole new light.

"Well you have to feed both halves, dear, if you want them to thrive." She pointed at the text. "Forage and grains, too. Oats, sorghum, millet, and they do love persimmons. Why, once I thought Mister Whiffles was going to take my hand clean off."

Responsibilities. "Oh, the laundry!" Clare scurried downstairs to attend to it. She moved the wet things to the dryer, and started the second load, dreading the late hour this would push them to. When she came back into the kitchen, she heard Rue and Siri descending the staircase, negotiating. She knew who would win.

"Well, as long as I get back by ten, eleven at the very latest, he should be fine." Clare felt relieved about the drive, but dreaded being ready to leave by 8:30 am, but then remembered that a night at Aunt Rue's meant a night in the featherbed, and that a morning at Aunt Rue's meant home made sausage, biscuits and gravy.

They settled again, around the great table, sipping another cordial glass of liquid garnets, Siri and Rue looking over the topographical map that showed the property, positioned alongside the one showing the meadow above the falls. Again, Rue was not one to be turned down. Clare was still reeling. You'd think she was used to this by now.

Sparkling red wine changed to hot tea with cream, laundry and maps were folded. Soon it was settled. All the worries of what to do about the camp season ending, about finding a place for Bux, about keeping warm and especially about feeding her charges melted away. Overwhelmed, excited, relieved, Clare said her goodnights and padded barefoot up the stairs. having been granted a forehead kiss that invariably insured it, she was deeply asleep before Siri slipped in beside her.

"mmmfffwh'time'zit?" she slurred.

"Just before midnight." He paused to wind his watch before placing it on the washstand.

"haffy birfdy, sssiri." She was barely coherent enough to get words out. "you're m'faaav'rit sssspoooon. alufffyooo."

"I love you too, Au Clair d'lune." He smiled, resigned to the fact that she wouldn't remember in the morning. This had been a good day.


	12. twelve - Moving Day

"Starlight and dewdrops…" A knock at the door accompanied the sweet voice. The windows still showed twilight. Even as the sun rose, it didn't break the high horizon of the close ridges by seven a.m. Siri rose at the first call, and once dressed, opened the curtains and let in the growing light. The prospect of a warm, short walk to the facilities was a welcome trade off for the early rise. When she emerged, dressed and ready, she could already smell sausage.

Downstairs, Siri was coming in carrying a bucket, and Rue was bagging up a large handful of persimmons. Buttermilk biscuits were ready to go into the oven, and cream gravy was about to begin in the skillet. It must be magic, how the same basic alimental ingredients transmuted into two distinct, but complementary, components of the country breakfast. Pork fat, flour, milk, and heat, Aunt Rue's alchemy combined the four to produce gold for the morning table. Just as all else had come together, fresh eggs were cracked into a spitting skillet. Claret conveyed the plates to the table just in time for the eggs to come up.

Watching her two favorite people getting along so perfectly was more than Claret could have ever hoped for. Such a mutual respect was growing between them. Their interactions showcased his mature cultivated side, without obscuring his charming coltishness. Rue had instantly embraced him as a peer, as a friend, and as family. One more look at the maps, and they were ready to head out, ahead of schedule.

Rue would string up the ancient blue Christmas bulbs in the blue spruce out front a few weeks early this year, and light the star on the barn to serve as a beacon. On the way out they stopped at the vendor with the pumpkins and offered him fifty dollars for the lot, plus an extra ten if he'd run them up to the Wilder place, save for one they'd take in the jeep. He knew Rue and how the Jersey girls loved pumpkins, and would be glad to. Jack-o-lantern pumpkins were hard to sell in November, and he'd throw in a few Hubbards for the promise of a pie.

The drive back to the camp was cheerful, and without musical accompaniment. There was too much to talk about. When they arrived back at the camp, they put the pumpkin, her hatchet, and half the persimmons in his bag and hurried down the trail to feed Bux. While Siri coursed hares, Clare took the axe to the pumpkin. As soon as the orange flesh cleft open, Bux fluttered and squawked. She tossed him a few small pieces; he tore into them. He nearly bowled her over to get to the rest. He dug into the seedy slimy entrails like those of his accustomed furry fare. The pumpkin was timely, as Siri had only caught two hares.

While Bux tore into their flesh, Siri tore into hers. There was no nest to lay her in, so he shoved her up against a boulder and bared her thighs and backside. He hadn't had her since the night before they left for Rue's, so there was no point in resisting, as if she ever could resist him. His charm, his scent, his heat, his smile, his eyes, the dichotomy of his maturity and immaturity, his patience and his urgency, his magic… all irresistible. He growled or purred in her ear, and bared her neck to his teeth or his lips, she never knew just which she would get. His hands gripped her hips gently to start, then fiercely. He handled her like a hummingbird drinking from a delicate flower; he handled her like a lion feeding on a gazelle. She was his nectar and his prey, and she loved it. After he was spent, he lay against her, panting. A rock was not the most comfortable bottom slice for a Claret sandwich, but the top slice was worth staying for. His ran his hands gently over her flesh, soothing the imprints his grip had dug into her moments before. He slipped out of her, covered her bare skin and turned her to embrace her.

"You are so precious to me," he whispered softly into her hair. She felt his issue slide down her thigh and soak into her jeans. This was all new to her, being their first time together this way, clothed, outside of a nest. Still, he had a need, a desire to cling to her.

She sat against the rock and held him until Bux came sniffing too close to the backpack. He must have smelled the persimmons. They found it was safest to toss them to him one by one. After the first two bounced off his beak, he became quite adept at catching them in the air. After the treats were gone, they spent some time cleaning up the cleft, removing bones, fur, feathers and scat, to weather away exposed to the elements, then made their way back to their own camp.

When they reached the tent, he pulled her inside. They lay together for a few hours, napping and snuggling until it was time to make a late lunch. After that, they could fully break down camp and prepare for the move. Siri started the last fire, and helped take down the ropes for the bear bucket. She cooked up the last of the eggs, with Spam like before, served up in the last of the flatbread. No trip to town for laundry had meant they missed a grocery store trip as well. She could call Scarlet from Rue's tonight.

By three o'clock, everything was packed up, the site was clean, and the fire was extinguished. Claret would go to the camp office to check out, and Siri would go stay with Bux until it was time to fly. The new moon would keep him hidden; he would have to rely on the stars to navigate and Rue's beacons to guide his way. They embraced before parting. She would see him tonight at the Wilder property.

The drive seemed to take forever. She arrived before dark, and called her sister. Helping Rue with evening chores made a good excuse to cut it short. After outdoor chores were done, they baked a ham and boiled potatoes afterwards in its broth, but Claret barely ate. Rue gently heated several days worth of buttermilk to curdle it for cheese. Claret fidgeted and paced. It wasn't even ten yet, he probably hadn't even started yet. Rue sat with a fine crochet hook and worked thread into snowflakes and stars. Clare tried to pay attention but couldn't focus, her thoughts kept wandering to another star, the brightest in her sky. She helped Rue gather the white curds into a cheesecloth to drain hung over the sink. She looked out the window at the dark landscape, unlit from above. The moon was made of green cheese, they used to say, but right now it was hanging over the sink shrouded in cheesecloth.

Rue dozed with a lapful of snowflakes. Clare went to the side lights of front foyer to check that the spruce was lit. It was, as it was the first three times she checked, as it would be the next time. At midnight, she started watching the clock. The relentless ticking mocked her heartbeat and became deafening, interrupted only by the intermittent hum of the Kelvinator in the kitchen corner and an occasional mumble from Rue. This was the longest she has been away from him since the moment they met. She was broadsided by the anxiety this made her feel. She had only know him for what, three weeks? Yet he had changed her world so profoundly that she couldn't imagine going back.

At long last, the Dink and Seelie sang of arriving visitors. She flew out the doors and down the steps in a single stride and met them between the house and the barn. Dink had grown unusually quiet, and Seelie peeked at the great beast from behind the well house. Siri slid to the ground and let his backpack down.

"Are the pumpkins here? Let him cool a bit and we can feed him." He embraced her warmly while he let the creature walk around, pecking at gravel. She buried her face in the soft wool and drank in his scent. It was such a relief to have him close again.

They heard the screen door whine and slam. Rue appeared on the steps, smiling. She went to the barn and brought out some sweet feed. Bux eyed her. She curtsied. Bux sniffed the air, stepped toward her, then bowed and strode up to her and buried his head in the bucket. He came up with a mouthful of feed and rubbed his crest against her bosom and cooed. Rue was delighted; her eyes shone and she giggled like a five year old child. She never thought she'd see this again.

"Sweet thing, let's find you a place in the barn for tonight." She carried the bucket into the barn; he readily followed. Seelie slunk out and sniffed the ground where the beast had stood, while Siri instigated a dangerous kiss, sliding his cold hands between her warm skin and the back pockets of her jeans, across thumbprint bruises still tender from this morning.

"How was your flight?"

"It was quiet, uneventful, and lonely. Rue's blue spruce made a fine beacon. I am so glad to be here. Bux will thrive." So would he, she thought.

Rue met them back in the yard and walked with them inside. She set a kettle to boil and reheated his supper. Once he was warmed by true-to-form hospitality, he was sent upstairs to the featherbed with his sweet escort, a day come full circle.


	13. thirteen - A Good Hand

When Claret opened her eyes, it was dim in the room, but slivers of full daylight peeked in at the edges of the heavy curtains. Rue must have hung them yesterday; the ones there the morning before hadn't shut out the light. Siri was sleeping soundly, the Steiff bear sawing logs in a dream forest. She quietly slid out of the soft cotton sheets and tiptoed to the stairs. If he was still asleep this late, he must have needed the rest.

Downstairs, Rue was at the stove, attending to a pot of simmering stock. A bowl of spent bones sat on the skirt of the sink. The flour canister and jar of buttermilk were waiting on the table. The clock in the sitting room chimed eleven. Claret looked out the back window in the direction of the barn.

"Don't worry, child. I fed the sweet beast after I milked the cows. He's such a pet. You kids needed your rest. That Siri looked as peaked as the hippogriff last night, coming in from the cold." Claret tried to imagine how a feathered animal could look pale, but Rue had a way of seeing what any creature needed, regardless of its countenance. "When he wakes up, I'll get the dumplings in, so they'll be hot and fresh for him." She tipped in the meat she'd taken off the bones Thursday night. "They will warm him from the inside out."

Claret made her way upstairs. A squeaky floorboard betrayed her, and her fuzzy Steiff bear halted his sawmill and opened his eyes, human again. She slid back into the warm featherbed and snuggled up close. He started to pull away.

"Responsibilities—"

"—have already been taken care of," she finished for him. "Stay put for a moment."

"What is that heavenly aroma?" He sniffed the air. Tendrils of scent beckoned from the kitchen. He pulled away successfully this time. She'd been trumped by a game hen. He quickly dressed and padded downstairs, boots in hand. Rue was already dropping dumplings into the simmering pot. He sidled up behind her and kissed her on the cheek. She nearly smacked him with her spoon.

"Rapscallion! Charm won't make it cook faster. Here, take these bones to Whiffy, but don't let the dogs have any." Claret wasn't surprised. Sometimes Aunt Rue called her Carmine, Garnet or even Millie. Sometimes she went through the whole roll call, including Ceelie. And of course, Siri had already learned to answer to Tenny.

Claret had the table set, sweet tea poured, and a double-thick crocheted pot holder waiting for the hot pot. Siri came in just in time. It seemed natural that he'd sit at the head of the table, the end nearest the door. He served the ladies first, then himself. Steam rose from the glistening pepper-flecked dumplings. They broke open to reveal light fluffy insides. The thickened stock clung to every bite of the chicken, like a velour scarf on the bare shoulders of a demure girl in a strapless gown. Holding on, but only just; slipping off to reveal a glimpse of pale white flesh.

"Tenny—Siri," Rue caught herself. "If you want to be a good hand around here, you're going to need some work clothes. And I need some things from town. Charlie and his boys are coming for the hog in a few days, if the weather holds. Do you think you have what it takes to help slaughter a pig?"

After dishes were washed, they piled into the old stepside Chevy. In the driveway, it was like wrestling an anaconda; it had no power steering. Out on the open road, it was better. Town, though, was a chore. Parallel parking made Claret's arms and head ache. The Goodwill store wasn't nearly as marvelous as Sweet Charity's, but they found what they needed, warm rugged clothes, a pair of tall rubber boots, a good barn coat, and some coveralls. At the general store, Rue stocked up on freezer paper, tape, soap and a good pair of work gloves. She also picked up curing salt and sage, pepper, and sheep's casings.

That evening, Rue explained the process to Siri, and what parts Charlie and the boys could use help with. Claret had been around for it once or twice, but there were definitely parts of it she couldn't stomach, especially on the first day. She knew Piggi Longstockings had been happy and well cared for during her time here, and likely fared far better than any factory farm pig, but that still didn't mean she wanted to participate in the whole process.

Siri, Rue, and Clare all had a little visit with Piggi the day before the men came. She enjoyed her last tasty treats in the morning, vigorous back scratches, and a warm bath with a good scrub. All her days here had been good ones. Her second to last day would be a particularly good one, and tomorrow would be as pleasant as her one bad day could be.

Charlie, Tommy and Ricky trailered in the skid loader and scalding trough that evening and got things set up. Rue could start heating the water the next day, before they arrived. She started a big pot of Brunswick stew, which would serve not only to feed and warm the workers, but to clear out a little more room in the freezer ahead of the pork that would fill it. Chicken, pork, beef, maybe even some squirrel, would join tomatoes, onions, corn, lima beans, okra, or 'okry' as Rue called it, and potatoes, and a smoked hock, from Charlie's smokehouse, no doubt. Lots of black pepper and a little Worcestershire sauce would round it out with a kick. She even made crackers to serve with it, rolled thin and scored into half inch squares, give or take. They puffed up like pillows in the hot oven. She had to hide them away to keep sneaky hands from digging in. That evening, they all sat around the table for a lesson in knife sharpening. Siri helped lift the pot of stew into the oven, set very low, to spend the night.

The next day, Clare stayed inside in the beginning, daring to watch out the back window by the humming Kelvinator. She watched as Rue led Piggi Longstockings on her last walk, up to the front of the skid loader. Siri said something to Charlie, and Tommy passed him the rifle. He knelt in front of Piggi, scratched her behind the ears, and spoke to her. He took his index finger and traced a little circle around and around on her forehead. Piggi's long eyelashes fluttered shut. He stood and aimed the gun, just the way Charlie instructed. Claret closed her eyes as well. The Kelvinator hummed on; it had seen this dozens of times.

The sharp report of the .22 meant that the men were springing into action. Charlie's razor sharp blade would be plunging into the jowl, loosing a red deluge into the bucket quickly placed to catch it. Ricky and Tommy would be ready with the gambrel to catch the legs and hoist her up to finish bleeding out. The only squeal Clare heard was that of the pulleys as they raised the carcass up.

After the blood drained, it was safe to go out and help. Piggi Longstockings was gone, her one bad day was over; all that remained was flesh and work. Claret stood back when they used the skid loader to swing the 350 pounds over to the hot and ready water. Once scalded, time was of the essence, so everyone would be ready to scrape hair when the carcass came out of the water. Claret and Siri worked on the smooth back and rump, leaving the belly and legs for more experienced hands. Scraped, then scrubbed clean, the skin was pale and white, and they were ready for the next part that Claret had to shy away from. She used the excuse of checking on Dink and Ceelie, tied on the other side of the barn. She also checked the charm that kept a hippogriff hidden. Nothing in here but a dark, quiet stall. When she came back, Siri was helping Rue carry in the organs she wanted. Tommy was rinsing the cavity and Ricky was flushing out the casings. Charlie gave Claret the leaf lard to carry inside. That was a prize for Rue. She passed Siri in the back porch. He was beaming. His cheeks were red from the cold, the exertion and the excitement of the experience. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried out. He was needed outside.

Inside, Rue was at the sink, attending to the liver. She was pleased with the gift Clare carried in. Leaf lard would render into snowy white clean fat for perfect pie crusts. Clare glanced out the window. With Charlie guiding him, and the boys steadying the body, Siri was sawing down through the backbone. Once that was done, the halves would be hung in the shed overnight to chill. The rest would be done in the morning.

The men cleaned up the site, took off dirty aprons and gloves, rinsed their boots, and went inside the warm house. Brunswick stew was waiting for them, hot and thick enough to stand a spoon up. The crackers were a hit. Sweet tea flowed. Rue loved to have a crowd around the table.

"Rue," Charlie started, between swallows, "I didn't know what to think when I heard 'im talk, but I b'lieve you got yerself a good hand." He shoveled down another spoonful, then turned to Siri. "Surry, I don't know what you said to that hog, but I ain't never seen one go down that easy and still bleed right. Ya done good today, son. Ya done real good."

The next morning, the boys were back to break down the chilled halves. Bacon and side meat were squared off, chops were sawed, hams, shoulders, and ribs sectioned off. Some was wrapped for the freezer, some was sent to Charlie's smokehouse, and all the bits were ground for sausage. Rue rendered the perfect white leaf lard and packed it into jars. She fried out the cracklings and made a rich cake of cornbread, to go with the pintos she'd serve the men before they left. Rue made livermush after the men left. Pork liver and cornmeal, seasoned well with sage and pepper, was baked in a loaf pan. Chilled overnight, it would make for another new breakfast experience for what was, indeed, proving to be a good new farm hand.


	14. fourteen - The Messenger

Claret slipped out of the warm fragrant kitchen, into the late daylight that remained after the sun sank below the west ridge. In the barn, she found Siri chopping a pumpkin for Bux. After he set the pieces down for him, she wrapped her arms around him and slipped her hands under his shirt. She stroked that arrowhead of fur above his waistband. "You haven't had a hunt since you've been here. I wonder if Bux needs a little meat?" Siri hadn't taken her as prey since then either; Bux had at least had some scraps of pork. Siri turned in her arms and nuzzled her neck.

"The hares should be out in the pasture soon," His voice went from a purr to a soft growl in her ear. The arrowhead turned to a spear and the lips gave way to teeth. No scents from the kitchen would trump her tonight. She wondered if he were truly that sensitive to her pheromones that he had known an hour before even she knew herself, that she was to be out of commission for a few days, that morning they had dumplings. There had been more than one bleeding like a stuck pig on the farm that week. But now she, as well as Siri, was ready for a pursuit.

He pulled away from her with a hot dangerous kiss and made tracks into the pasture, two by two then four by four. She climbed into the hay loft to watch from a clear vantage point. The hares here were plumper, slower, and far more plentiful, but Bux only needed two to supplement his vegetarian feed.

This short easy hunt left Siri hungry and underexerted. He stalked up the ladder and found her waiting in the loft, undressed and ready, in a nest of loose hay. He started at her toes, and snuffled and nibbled his way to her fingertips. She trembled with impatience, but when she tried to pull at his clothing, he growled and held her wrists down. She craved his skin against hers. He passed her wrists from one hand's grasp to the other to peel off his shirt, but still left her starving, feeding only his own hunger, tasting the flesh of her neck, her shoulders. She burned like fire. Her submission was over, she struggled and fought, pulling her wrists free, and tearing at his belt buckle. He had toyed with her enough. He let her take over undressing him, and yielded this time to her. Now he would be the prey, she'd feast on his flesh for a change.

She took a long slow tour over his body. Places that had been gaunt and underfed a month ago were filling out nicely, but still had progress to make. The work he'd been doing on the farm was building strength in his muscles, his arms and back, as demonstrated earlier. She would not have broken free if he hadn't let her. She realized her illusion of control was only that, an illusion. She ended her tour with her cheek pressed against the spear of fur. His care and feeding had started to show as well in a soft pillow of flesh that was growing there between his waistband and his navel. She pushed the waistband aside and pulled the fabric out of her way. The predator became the prey, the flower sipped at the hummingbird, the gazelle swallowed the lion. With pleasure, she tortured him to the brink, then pulled away, to rest her cheek again on her favorite pillow. She felt his hands in her hair; he panted and groaned, but she let him. She had waited, so must he. She climbed on top of him, and grasped his wrists. She held him down; kept him at bay. His eyes burned now, he gritted his teeth. And suddenly, that illusion of control was snatched away, and she found herself on her back, her own wrists again pinned. There was no struggle this time. And no relent. For over an hour they made up for lost time, then lay together in a warm embrace, until a sound in the barn brought them back to reality.

Claret crept to the edge of loft to investigate. An owl was picking at the remaining half of a hare. Its snowy heart-shaped face turned nearly upside down as it regarded her with eyes that seemed to ask, 'Whooo are yoooou and what are yooou twoooo dooooing up there?' The bird flew soundlessly up to the loft and lit by Siri, now pulling on his clothing. Claret had seen more owls in the last month than she'd ever seen before, and now she understood why. Siri unfastened a scroll from the taloned leg and unrolled it. His brow furrowed with concern. Claret dressed quickly and descended the ladder behind him.

"It's from my godson." He read it over and over while the tawny bird again attended to the rabbit. "Rest here for now," he instructed the messenger, "I'll have a reply ready straight away. I need to test a theory first." She followed him back into the warm kitchen. Rue was sitting in her chair crocheting snowflakes, half listening to some program on the television. The picture was snowy and the sound intermittently marred by static. Siri greeted her politely, but hurried upstairs. As Claret walked by, cheeks pink, hair mussed and decorated with hay, Rue rose and stopped her.

"Claret, dear. There's a perfectly good bed upstairs, don't be afraid to use it." She handed her a tall plain candle. "Wax helps with the springs, dear. I was young once, too, but not anymore. My hearing isn't what it was, I sleep like the dead, and the walls and floors are thick and sound." Blushing, she accepted the candle and continued up the creaking stairs.

When she got upstairs, Siri had two drawers out of the chifferobe, contents spread out over the bed. He was rummaging through a third drawer, then strode to the fireplace. He thrust his hand up inside, fiddling with the flue. He turned and flew down the stairs. Claret listened from the bannister. Siri asked permission to use the fireplace. Rue told him where to find dry firewood and kindling. Claret came down to help, and followed him out to the shed with the canvas sling Rue told her where to find in the back porch.

They returned with a heavy armload of hardwood and a bucket of kindling and fragrant fat pine. Siri wasted no time with a flint and steel, lighting the fire instead with a blast from Uncle Tenny's wand. It caught quickly and burned strong. He brought box of tins over from what he'd found in the chifferobe, opening them one by one, casting in a bit of powder, a pinch of flakes, a few grains, observing the reactions of each. The colors, fragrances, and patterns of sparks varied from substance to substance. Finally, he cast in a measured combination of three, and a swirling aura encircled his head. She gasped, worried his hair was about to fizzle away, but it didn't. He looked around inside the fireplace, as if he were surveying some faraway place, then quickly pulled his head out and shook off the sparkling flames. He stood and began digging in his pack, and pulled out parchment and a pen, and began writing.

"Clare, love, fetch me the calendar from the kitchen, if you will." She hurried upstairs with it. He counted days, ciphered in the air, and counted backwards five hours. He made a note on the square of the twenty-first, a single word, 'Harry', and a figure eight. He finished the letter and rolled the scroll tightly, and returned to the barn to dispatch the messenger back.

He watched the silent wings disappear into the night. He had let himself become too distracted. He had only planned to stop in this place long enough to recover some strength. Truly, he was building strength, and had a long way to go. Now that he had discovered the secrets in the fireplace, he felt much better equipped to watch over things from afar. And the stronger Buckbeak grew, the better able he would be to ferry him home when he was needed.


	15. fifteen - Moon and Stars

With less than two weeks to go before Thanksgiving, Rue and her hands had work to do. The table would be full, so they would need to bring down the rest of the tall chairs and dust them. The guest list would include Claret's parents and her sister, and Rue's half sisters, Gramma Garnet and Aunt Millie. As much as she looked forward to it, Clare dreaded it just as much. They agreed that it would be best if there was no mention of the nature of the bond building between Sirius and Claret. It was not unusual at all for Rue to take in farm hands as boarders. Of course, they would have to make the vacant bedroom look lived in, and move Claret's things over. With the break from school, Scarlet would stay the whole week. It would be so good to see her. They'd share the other featherbed, leaving Siri a bachelor.

As the days passed, Claret helped Rue go through the list of everyone's favorite things, and what would and wouldn't be missed. Claret had never been much more than a spectator before; clearly she was overwhelmed, overexcited, overanxious, but it was no big deal to Rue. Wrangling Claret was the biggest challenge. One afternoon, Rue gave her a Benadryl and tasked her to find the summer's cream corn and the fall's persimmon pulp in the freezer. Another day, she had her polish the mismatched silverware. At some point, she just had to get the child out of the house, so she sent her to the store with a detailed list, and Siri, with instructions to slow her down.

One of the stops would be the cheese factory. That would give Siri an opportunity to view the factory's work through the plate glass window overlooking the operation. It would give him ample time to distract his charge and drag the day's errands out as long as possible. At his request, she explained what was happening as the workers attended the great long vats. One pair was combing through a silky smooth quivering coagulated mass with a tool like a wire grid, while other workers were shoveling firm curds into round molds to drain. Inside the factory store, they picked up the sharp cheddar from Rue's list, and three bags of fresh squeaky curds.

While they drove to the other stops, they snacked on green cheese. It was pale and milky white like the moon that would rise full that night, squeaky like the bed springs, salty like the sweat on his skin after a hunt. Spending the afternoon with him was just what she needed. Time with him reset her, centered her. Much of the dread of being trapped at a table with too much family at one time relaxed. The self-inflicted obsession to make it all perfect steamed away like a pressure cooker set off the heat.

Before what she thought would be the last stop, Claret stopped at a pay phone to call to see if anything else needed to be added to the list. Rue added an item or two, and suggested the couple have supper out. The perishable items would fare fine in the cooler in the back of the jeep; the weather was cool. Then she asked to speak to Siri. He listened, and replied, "Yes, ma'am… Lovely. Yes, That will do nicely… Yes, I shall. Thank you." He hung up the receiver and turned to his date for the night, "So, pizza?"

The moon followed them home, bright and broad, while Sting crooned over the speakers. Siri carried in the cooler, and Clare, the remaining half of a large pizza. On the table, they found a note from Rue. All the chores were done, and she had called it an early night. The house was quiet, but for the hum of the Kelvinator in the corner. Once everything was carried in and put away, Siri led his pet up the stairs. He sent her to the bedroom to get undressed while he drew her a hot bath. Rue had left the electric heater on to knock the chill off the massive cast iron clawfoot tub. Otherwise it was impractical to use, as the heat would be sucked out of the water leaving a long soak out of the question. Two soft towels hung ready, about an acre of thirsty terrycloth each.

She stood in the doorway, watching him attend to the growing mound of bubbles developing at one end of the tub. She smiled. She hadn't had a bubble bath since she was a kid. She and Scarlet used to have so much fun, despite being five years apart. Tomorrow night, they'd have a slumber party, and it would last all week. With Scarlet and Siri right there, she'd be able to survive the ground assault. She had backup. He held her hand and helped her into the hot steaming water, the honey-sweet chamomile scent rising around her. As her skin descended into the water, the remaining tension evaporated. Siri left the room, returning undressed, carrying several candles. He lit them, and let them float in the air around them. Clare was momentarily surprised, she sometimes forgot what Siri could do. He slipped into the tub behind her.

He didn't molest the innocence of the bubble bath memory, instead he served as a structure for her to relax against, a scaffold to hang all her cares on, a buoy to keep her nose above water. His arms cradled her as she steeped. Claret-tea. Clarity. Again, somehow he made everything so clear, so simple, just by being there, just by being him. A touch of sweetness, a touch of control. Every time _le_ Clare _de la lune_ faded, Sirius was the bright star in her sky, rising to light her way. With her head leaned back on his shoulder, and her cheek pressed to his, there was nothing but them. The only sounds were the steady rhythms of heartbeats and breaths, and the crickling sound of fading bubbles.

When the tea had steeped enough, and cooled enough, it was time to leave the peace of the water. He wrapped her in a warm towel, himself as well. He left her by the fireplace, where his fur cloak lay spread before a crackling fire. He returned with a mason jar of white grape juice, from the vines along the east side of the house. The moisture of the warm bath condensed on the cold jar, catching the firelight in tiny beads. They both drank directly from the jar, the sweetness of the nectar rivaled that of even the sweetest iced tea.

They sat, face to face on the fur, draped in their towels, draped in each other, and focused only on each other. _Les yeux dans les yeux, et les mains dans les mains,_ eye to eye and hand in hand. Rue had reminded Siri that this was to be their last night together before Scarlet arrived and their relationship would have to go incognito, and that he'd be wise to make the most of it. He intended to do exactly that. For hours they touched each other in every way but sexually, skirting so dangerously close to the edge that more than once, they had to stop and just breathe before things went too far. An occasional sip of sweet cool juice would serve to quench and to refuel.

They shared each breath, they shared each heartbeat, they shared a kiss, at long last. She felt they had begun to transcend the connection they'd had up until now, drawn into a gyre of yin and yang. Sting was right; there is no deeper wave than this. That's what she thought, until the wave got deeper and deeper, until she was adrift in the ocean that was him and herself: an ocean so deep and vast that it breached the ridges and filled the hollow and washed her away. They wove themselves together into a raft, body and soul forming warp and weft. Each wave they rode was like a tide, ruled by the moon. She heard the sound of one hand clapping. She saw the moon and stars. When the moon went dark, only her shining star remained, spilling a pillar of light into her sacred space.


End file.
